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416 · May 2015
Untitled
Tim Barnes May 2015
It washes over like mist
moving inexorably closer.
Ethereal tendrils licking face and hands,
precursor to the full onslaught,
enveloping absolutely....
rendering blind to distant reality.
Lost and alone,
unable to grasp substance
stumbling onwards, hope receeds,
the end is salvation
from tedious seas of nothingness

— The End —