Warp speed binary insomnia and a
Sloth of rot in the gut.
The OCD induced counting of the hours
As they drain away in a bright red
Dye that was meant for the morning.
Young women and old men,
Even younger women and very dead men,
They speak with voices of radio noises
And pound on my temples with
Unrelenting tempos and words of
Overwhelming hope and despair.
How deadly the morning.
How precious the air.
Beads of consciousness as water
Left upon wood to slowly seep in.
Welcome the morning,
This life wearing thin.
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