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Feb 2014
you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours
are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head
and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain
are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really
but the weather forecast proves you wrong
still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance
and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine
than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future.
the mirror is chanting of your insanity,
your eyes of your deterioration
and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing
and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying
but you swear the world is melting all around you,
colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds
and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating
but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least,
except today, all of your ghosts left their graves
and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly,
and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.
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