Only a question remains: how can one be so empty
And consumed all at once
Everything but sleep upon me,
Pale-white as a sheet and
The days grow colder still
They say a weather warning is approaching.
The pharmacist spoke of it as he dolled out my pills
I am but a quiet, dry shell
Waiting
On the couch at 5am
The lightest dreams flew into me,
Like a hundred soft grey moths
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