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Ben Taylor Mar 2012
The stars tilt in the no-moon sky,
Becoming pupils to the watery eyes dripping
Down the pane of my window.
Cloudless rain flings itself towards the light,
The safety of my indoors.
I shy away from the wail of the drops--
Their misery somehow arouses guilt
From the spaces between ribs.
The slap-sting of their terror on glass
Forces hands to ears
To prevent the sound from becoming
A memory.
The wind screams, gnashing branches.
My own droplets leak from my shame,
Salty and safe as they warm to my skin,
Offering their sympathy.
But their brethren are still dying.
Ben Taylor Mar 2012
The man gazed at the weathered sheet of paper held listlessly between finger and thumb, its edges slightly ripped and not a little yellowed. The list was printed in varying shades of ink, the older entries significantly faded. The words were his life transcribed: a list of all he had accomplished. The list included both trivial and monumental achievements and covered the page from back to front.
His expression was not one of pride or satisfaction, however. It was instead one of deep unsettlement, despair. No joy was to be had from his successes; no reprieve from the sense of ubiquitous uselessness was found in the work he finished.
The feeling was dampened when active, but at night with only his list as company the weight of his utter lack of meaning tore his lungs from their cage and his heart from its socket.
He took a lighter from his pocket and resolutely held the flame to the parchment. The flame, however, merely curled round the edges and left the frayed paper unharmed; his life was so lackluster as to be absolutely inflammable, untouchable by any strong desire or emotion.
The apathy clogged his throat but forced him to breathe.
He sat down heavily and tried to remember how to cry.

— The End —