siranswerer

memory of the man

this, little fortune, that
alleviates my sudden sorrow.
has too little to do
with the world spinning.
my skin is chalk against
the rain of misfortune,
washes to nothing.
the sharp point pricks,
and i bleed, thin and washed out.
it aches me to breath,
so i stop, until,
i gasp.
the slugg'd movement of muscle
torments, as the memory of
the man i once was.



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