Distorted echoes of the promised past fall on deaf ears,
Faint whispers of forgotten future are abhorrent.
Speaking is the problem
Silence is the present.
Playful clouds on the precipice provide a mirage of safety,
A swift storm brews on the horizon.
Knives are being sharpened in the periphery,
Words are the slow poison.
Only ashes are added to an addled mind
If mirrors could reflect a soul.
The needle becomes obsolete
Once you’re at the North Pole.
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