Midnight of the morning,
Chilled and shaking, conscious
Only of reflecting black,
Receding walls.
Never before have I
Felt so small.
If there was one of
Whom to ask, I'd set
Before them but one task:
To listen and
Internalise
This analogy:
"Before I woke I must've given
birth, so explaining 'way my
inner hollow. Yet of even more
import: was that I bore truly
mine own stillborn soul?"
Vampyr-like, I embrace the dark,
Mirror for an inhuman state but,
Mirrors I have learned to hate, that
Lie with images of a carapace.
No hint there of cracks or gaps
Or the true state of being a
Dead
Man
Walking.
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