(by Gub, 27th of December 2020)
For me
You don’t exist
You are like a folded shadow;
A part-time preacher
promising a sermon
That never comes
I listen for words to lighten
the dark
For some noise to deaden the echo
Of my own voice - but no chords are
Struck.
I am feint with hunger for sound
Unhinged by my own interminable guide track.
When will you speak.
What noise will you make, amidst the clatter of my tortured thinking.
For if you voice a thought
What will I answer back....?
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