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by Jared Simmonds

all the colours are emaciated,

grudgingly stripped of life

yet burdened with existence.

the world beyond sits plainly organised.

simple angles, basic psychology,

and my body,

that heavy plague,

is dead.

inertia has equalised

the hierarchy of dreams.

I know no anaesthetic, not even your

suffering, to silence the foreignness

of waking.

I am alone.

your presence and care

dropping like acorns

to the pavement.