My halls, The walls, my wicked falls turn'd from stone, dissolved to nary a diffid tone thrown by ******* bones.
An amorphous form born from the aimless mourning that now has no space to face and call my own.
Telltale swarms of which I myself did warn would come, Once and again I crumble from what once which I would succumb.
Myself. Dear. Gone.
I am, afloat in limbo forever struck with what, I Left only to silence my mind until once again, I would find the cut.
... Page 2
My totality revised, Scratched through like the words unworthy. Smoothed over the rough draft, Autobiography progressive, Nary writing another day's pages.