The poetry has faded like a drab painting hanging on the walls of time,
ticking forebodingly,
echoing the ill-gotten moments that pass off as a cure to feed off inspiration.
Dead words lying in a pool of thoughts,
clouded by veiled faces, hardly recognizable.
Even spectacles can’t focus coherency on their expression,
the murmurs,
half understood garble that re-emphasis the lack of bliss,
lack of concept,
lack of time within the vacuum,
borrowed time until the soul was sold for an unworthy price.

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