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What strangers we have become,
awkward creatures of the night.
Hollow carcasses by day,
thinning branches of the light.

A layer so very dull
in shape and form, colored true.
No light seeps in but the sound,
I swear, loops in echos through.

We’re a vacuum, oh-so still.
All that which falls, falls until
it meets ground, which also falls
beneath our feet and crumbling walls.

We dream of daylight’s kisses
to beget something anew.
Very distant a longing,
a wish not of this sun or moon.

A dream of a world’s axis.
Craving a divergent blue.
Not escape, just the comfort.
Excused existence in cue.

But what a strange thing it is
to be apathetically strangled
in a world in which you wish
to no longer be entangled.

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