Scintilla.

Curtains that no longer quench your thirst,

Walls that neither breathe nor outlive the dash of grey in your hair,

Blues that are not blues anymore,

Tip of your thumbnail that has turned black with toxins,

Distorted octahedrals that slip through an inch gap,

Lust and lust and lust;



And you decide to seal yourself in a fairer gloom.

There, yes, there.

You see a light, faint but alive, can’t you?

Not all voids are null, I promise.

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