The foreboding clouds surround any sound of silence.
He becomes specious
in his thinking.
And as his sinking suspicious soul longs to taste the sweet relieving freedom of peace, his eyes close again,
swallowing, sucking
him
in
(the bowels of his own soul)
side
collapsing his ribs of reason,
cra\ck}ing his spine of time and rhyme.
He feels not, he lives not, he is not.
Once again, in the moment of the shining light, he is revealed. The blades of light his (split) soul, he writhes in the satirical destiny of what he has never known, understood, or felt.
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