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Sober
Scream at the starry beyond
and the mad tales that writhe
in the recesses of my mind.
Voice, dry, cracked without deeper tenor
husks of words like dust motes stir
clouding sure sight.
Deaf?
To Nothing!
Hairline fractures of the soul
where moss takes root.
When will I be mended?
Is redemption lost or self serving?
History is only ReWritten
and the eyes are obscured.
Pulled up from nothing,
The wheel moves
and I return.
