through my soul
As if hearing through a fog
that all my bones are broken
that they have no marrow in their middle
They have turned cold and brittle
beneath my skin
and stripped of their calcium
sit like rotten twigs against each other
in an autumnal pile-
not even good for burning
for the sake of the sullen smoke
that singes as it sulks along the streets...
there is a sort of sickness in my soul
and not even sleep will silence it.
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