REMNANTS of winter at the window,
soft like your hatred as you surrender to
isolation and delve into a microcosm
of sleeping reminders, lost in a battle of time.
THE front page plays with your dreams;
the years are striding in like storms.
They are winning this jealous war
with boastful destruction in their voices.
YOU'RE bleeding days in desperation,
witnessing wounds and recording failures,
choosing fatigue as your perfume.
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