coma

everything has turned

the shade

of a dream long

forgotten.



must i stay here

in my hand-held

asylum,

imprisoned

by my good intentions?



narcissus says 'yes'

and i move along.



the edges have

begun to melt away.

no tape, nor glue,

nor staple,

nor sticky finger

could hold the

tapestry together.



is it really such

a shame, since

i never cared

for color?



narcissus says 'yes'

and i wait.



and wait.



and wait.



and

wait.



and











wait.



until comas have tired of waking.

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