The world’s a tube small tight a womb scent fraught with death. Or life. It’s just a seam that separates 

When death is born, like life, there’s rushing fear and pain. Both leave a sleepless child to rip the tending from my chest. The dark mouth of young death: the only respite’s tears 

It’s the lack of living mass by so weaving with the mind spark laying rolling round the gaping hole in ever tightening grip and vice, I try though I never 

am to wring a passable texture there

There is no reconciliation between a living being and space.

Give up. It’s closed, she says with her small hands. Her cool cheek settles against mine. And then the blindness darks to truth of neither height nor depth

The world just isn’t the same because some people are never really gone. While others slip away so quickly (quite tired of the earth). Whatever is, it is in spite of death. And, dear black death, you’ve grown. The hues we carry on our backs and in embolden our descent as we become much more of who we really are.

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