So the wreck remains.

They are but tortured cracks of plywood

and small planks of life;

A life lost to inevitability.

The struggle,

oh the struggle

of one so entrenched in the sorrow

of living.

Not for the morning dew or the

scent of dusk,

but for this empty continuation.

This, abyss,

the agonizing bloody drag,


of splinters crosswise o’er scorched skin.


Leave me,


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