Today, the ground on which I walk
stranger, quaking, damaged. Last night,
the bed on which I lay, my sleep- a slow
half-finished suicide. How false the world
appears extruding from shadows of the dark
its fabric ripped and pulled like veins
detached from muscle. And so I tire of
sunlight, singing birds, uncoiling flowers,
the ordinary streets that twist and turn
one into the other.
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