The leaving gets easier when there is nothing to leave. No trace of thought, no sound of consideration…just letters in ink…sheltered ideas/housed by lines/fragmented pleas.

Just darkened words left behind.

Hands used to writing.
No difference than the colored stains of an assignment that once was.

Let me crash into the wooden borders of eyes only used to see/hands only feeling what isn’t there
Concrete molecules of space…

And let me deny their existence. Just like I’ve been denied mine.

Splinters puncturing pain. Real defying truth. Death. Rebirth. Born anew. Flights of the free.


(Momentary niceties accomplished their deeds. Thank you.)


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