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I.

Deep beneath what the eye can see

carried on the rhythm of blood,

etched into each each of these two-hundred-and-six bones,

there is a longing,

a yearning ache.

Desirous, ferocious, ever-present.

Within this cranium a perpetual battle is fought

yet never won.

Obliteration, sweet freedom of death

release me from the shackles of memory,

melancholy, contrition.

Sinking into dirt,

the cold comfort of home.

Ebb and flow; particles, stardust,

waves of pure energy.

 

II.

Dying to live or simply existing,

who can tell?

Within the deepest ancestral part of this being

lies the truth,

undisturbed, waiting.

Courage summoned, shored up;

the beast will not submit.

 

III.

How alone we feel,

disconnected, confined, solitary.

A sentence undeserved.

Yet it is all an illusion,

predicated on endless moments of egoistic thoughts.

This is grief,

this is sorrow.

There is no escape.

We are one,

in death as in life.

The emotions distort the truth,

suffering the end result.

But somehow,

I have found a will to live

which I never knew I possessed.

 

IV.

Bittersweet reflection;

wistful existence.

At last a measure of solace

reached.

Sunshine etched in stone.

 

 

 

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