in the tocking of a tick
Before,
a haze
hung heavy,
each breath
laboured,
a chore.
The screen
a crutch,
a thief
of clarity,
of truth,
of self.
Joy dimmed,
a memory
trapped
in the
azure
of glass
countless
slivers
splintering
in the
tocking
of a tick.
Poetry by anonface
Read 43 times
Written on 2025-03-15 at 05:14
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