When you don’t know the meaning
Of each moment anymore,
Of the words that are leaning
Away from your lips, so sore
From the efforts of speech, vain
As grace sometimes seems to be,
All that remains of the pain
The faintest twinge, a ruby
Buried so far beneath stone,
Layers of boredom, of rage
Mute as a desert-bleached bone—
White letters on a black page.
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