London Poem: Day 294

7 June

All of the quiet little
Things become forgotten
Without so much as a roar.
The voice holds nothing next
To yours, making pain a
Non-glowing thing.
The strain lives under sheets,
Hiding without colour to live,
And breath unseen – but, it’s there.
To break, without a voice of it’s own
Is the unendurable trauma of
Feeling alone. I am broken,
And the rest of my world gone.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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