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The waste of time

Or the race

To meet the sublime

Which clock ticks

A faster pace

Seconds and hours

Til days and deaths do us part

Til your heart is broken or beaten or stops beating

Brought to the end by fears

Larger than your existential mad man prayers

To no god

To something other

Words, books, papers

Written by scribes and tellers, marketers

Then adjusted by editors, lecturers, teachers and preachers.

You are broken down beaten blue

Your mind aged with resistance

Spoken words repeated often

Becoming darker and darker

You seeking to find affirmation

For the price you pay

For the languishing existential boredom

You’ve created from the forlorn

Worn words you play with on your page

That confirm over and over

Your righteous stubborn position

Your need to hide and never confide even to yourself

What you offered

What you suffered.

The days of easier access

Now denied taken from you by your own need

To be cruel

To be snide

A cover you’ve perfected

Now a sheet of steel

There’s no way forward or back there’s no deal with the devil

Or with god

There’s just this space

And your lust to erase all things good and instead

To pass the time in carefully constructed

Meticulous despair

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