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Declan Quinn Feb 18
The silence hits harder than a punch,
Yet time flies by.
But oh so slow when words, once so easy,
become lodged in the deep well of insecurity and defiance.
The dichotomy a crescendo with each silent passing hour.
The fire's smoke, now whimpering tendrils, flit out as if caught in a breeze.
But the air is still, the storm is only raging in my unsettled mind,
And the next farewell may become another Eulogy to love lost.
Monday's can be brutal

— The End —