Thursday, 22 January 2015

All my friends died in Lassiter's fire

The muscles can't be bothered any more, and the breath can scarcely bother to draw.
A pain sunk in and made its home, for months and years around my bones.
My eyelids sink and draw to close, desperate for their long repose.


Weariness is wrapped around my ribcage.
Weariness has made myself its home.
Weariness sloughs off all my optimism.
Weariness is talking on the telephone.

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