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Hollow
Swallow emptiness,
scars healed not, forever.
Open the door!
Greet the question that awaits,
created in your own image.
Construct artificial palaces and die slowly
as you pretend that an answer will arrive.
Where do all the poets go
when scars cover throats
choking out sweet breaths
torn from pages of internal dialogue?
Death scent lingers
like putrid sunlight steeped in offal.
Do they consume vacancy,
puffer-fishing defenses in futility
quills turned inward,
piercing confidence
while bleeding awkward truths?
Silence closes doors drowned in apathy.
Construct artificial palaces and die slowly.
Created in your own image,
greet the question that awaits.
Open the door!
Scars healed, not forever,
swallow emptiness.
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