Scribbler Of Verses Poet I do not know?

Untitled 4

wreathed in silent torment
waking moments snap
at each breath of air

gnarled
echoes of pasts filter by

sleep eludes
weaves and teeters
numbing the weary mind

awake each thought
like splintered thorns
assault the dead of night

dreamless

devoid of hope
shorn of light

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