empty, he whispers
empty
too full of nothing
is there a road
to surpass these
thin shores
could I follow
that please?
he couldn’t grasp
the mere thought
of gone;
he has become it
the waves crash
in rhythm
with the pounding
in his weary temples,
the violin falls short
the leaves fall
they cover the slate,
moonshine spread
over hidden
yet escaping wrinkles
of a story
once perfected,
once crafted
from the only truth
he ever knew
crumple
throw it away
empty
sink deeper
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