It took slow,
The creeping death
That hosts me now;
No shouts -
This sour air patterned
By a clattering whine
I'm sick of all these silences
That ring
Where we had
Singing eyes
And dancing hands,
Where our bright gladness
Was infectious.
I'm sick of stillness
And sick of lurching in-between,
This race from mere to mere
Brings no grace
Like the pace that
Named us in our past age
And I feel nothing but
This dull and jealous rage,
This poison ache
That grates
But still won't shake me.
I am torpor's prisoner,
Seething in this shallow brew;
Slight, meaningless, and grey.
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