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Old people whisper trapped air,
dry, spirit voices.
Still youths inside,
lost and dismayed with physical decay.
Death’s a friend so close.

Words words, like dead birds
feathers falling from sky.
Throw me into dark floating night under god and street light,
sitting in the corner waiting for the sun.
There really is such a thing as time. I ain't laughing.
I can’t sleep,
am sentenced to endless electricity,
flitting cells zipping,
memories on skull walls,
dried glue wet with sweat.