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i feel lost within myself, a silent sort of empty lurking
deep within the core of me, the floor of me.
a piece of my heart is lodged in the trees that stand
so tall still outside my old bedroom window.
the hell of the detachment, the enchantment of the
turning leaves and the hues they seem to bleed,
has worn me down. the sun that rises over these dead
lands is not my sun, not my heat, not mine at all.
i exist in the world that was shoved upon me, stricken.
i exist in this detour life, this side track, this age
of quiet standing among cloudiness, emptiness inside.
the spirit that i was has retreated, long left behind.
sometimes i think she prods at my windows, looking in.
everything's changed so much, and my heart, it's
been breaking and breaking and breaking. but they all
shrug it off. why do i want them to console me?
but i cannot be consoled. the curse that plagues me:
it's my own. there's a broken world inside that i've
pressed out onto m