Conscious I come to the stream that I've been dreading. A crooked flow that follows into the empty cavern. There is no arsenal. There is no sustenance. There is no flattened space. There are no limbs to watch.
Just a lightless tomb clawed into the land. A dry and jagged mouth slack to hold the damned.
I won't hear my voice anymore. Dead to the weight of words. When I make a sound I want to silence myself.
A waste. A choice. Throw the switch at the dying echos.
I allow myself to hear a little and I only see what light can bring.
I take what I can. What a waste.
Who's breathing this life; what's making me: me?
Take it away. Give it back to the stream.
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