What crushing burden pinions me here,
While summer light plays merrily on glass?
Midday. you're at work. Hours slowly pass.
The tick of our old clock grows more severe.
The clock. The fingers on your slowing pulse.
The medic looks up at the lens-like glass,
And shakes his head at what has come to pass.
And then the knife, the rope, the dark impulse.
It's one P.M. You're not at work. You're dead.
The Ankou's fingers tap on window glass.
There have been days like weeks in how they pass,
And dreams of you bring lonely, waking dread.
The tricks I play on my own reeling mind,
Disintegrate and leave me left behind.
Now read Denial Cycle #3
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