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realization is a cursory word
struck hard to your sensory-self
something heir loomed or achieved,
but backed with a malevolent wind;
breath-stench, voice and spit.
when it comes, it strikes at high.
it shocks you with the most dominance
a few words tossed around can hold.
your composure racked out of alignment.
your senses overthrown to the foes.
the series of uncompromising duels
with a day-in/day-out occurrence,
they drag out, the make you enervated.
you're left worn and conquered in the heart,
and there's nothing you can do.
realization is what blinds you,
it is what keeps you cautious to
everyone except those worth the wary.
it's gotten to you, your eyes aren't
as bright as they were years ago.
you seem to get so frustrated by
the smallest things now, it's like
you have no will over yourself to enjoy.
your realization busted your nerves and
left you without your needed sympathy.
it came to you and stole what good was.
all you can reflect is forlorn thought
I the Noctambulist
I, the Noctambulist
Dark blood-trees with leaves so thick
And branches so puny plucking
The sorrowful ground...
Lining the view before me.
I watch the callous shimmerings fall on
The moon beams passing over and between
The waving clouds that scroll by.
Ghostly movements amidst the tall wild
Grass, making each blade bend as it
Slowly sways against the night wind.
A humming floods my ears and resounds
In everything I see. Reflecting
And bouncing back toward me, in all its
Fluid completeness, swallowing everything.
Dreary and weightless, my feet crush the
Dead grass down. With each step adding a
Small, quiet crush to the atmosphere.
The wind picks up with a small breeze,
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