Hollow.

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Silk is a soft

deceptive place

to wait for death.

 

(Its bony spider legs

wrapped around me

as the fangs sank in

day after day

poisoning my spirit

with the urgency

of normalcy.)

 

For ten thousand years

disguised as three

it hollowed the soul

leaving a shell

masquerading

as me.

 

Empty me.

 

Waking.

Dialing.

Faking.

Dying,

dying dying

drop by drop

sucked dry

as the beast

fed on my best

and I was left

lonely,

empty and

without muse

or hope

for recovering

everything missed

or sharing

anything gained.

 

I’ve been to hell

and it was a sea

of cubicles.

 

 

Renee Novosel

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