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Vapid, impotent, derelict no more,
Silenced voice of ages screams forth,
In anguished whispers of deafening force,
The carcophonic dialect of a faded whore.

Stilled life portrait,
Frozen in time,
A scene, tragic yet comic,
Suspended in the lime.

Decaying curtains, drawn aside,
Players move motionless within,
The crumbling theatre of my life,
Going though motions, yet not living.

In my veins, not blood flowing,
Merely red-stained tears of artless pain,
And nothingness is drawn,
Into my lungs ,not air.

Will I rise above this time?
Who knows. Not I.
I feel my existence dragging ever heavier,
As it whispers, "it's time to die"