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There's no light here, no life, no air to stir;
Just the labored thud of heart, wisps of breath,
Strains of dissonant thoughts, no river Lethe
To quell these last, dismal-dank moments here.
There's no movement here, no space to expand;
Just the cold finity that here resides,
This cold vacuum into which the soul bleeds,
And the numb madness leading to this end.
There's no hope here, no faint bid of escape;
Packed earth pressing with all its awful weight,
Just blood beneath the nails, fingertips split,
With reach of neither man nor god for help.
Only carrion worms to hear the screams;
To burrow their path through these tortured dreams.
© 1997 by J. M. Pressley
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