silence in hidden sins never spilled
as pennies into a wishing well;
like smashing a head in— to a wall
of living as must thrust upon a soul;
in every breath of biting wind, dreams
of sound readily abound; caught within
a sticky web, the throat constricts
around the unsaid; sunk in unwell
around the unsaid; sunk in unwell
without pennies to lend; why
doesn’t alive seem to matter?
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