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His Life was His Labyrinth
Smothering his fingertips, he began to feel the world around him—
The lacings of light, the softness of stars
On the floorboards,
The hollowed wood of the cracked sky, the signs
His breath made as they tumbled from his lips in a string like
ragged poetry;
he might have found his path in the night but the lines he wrote,
the marks he made—
the walls swallowed them,
cut short the echoes of his footsteps,
showed him only an outline of a man
with clouded eyes in the mirror because he couldn't see how to find
himself in a world as turbulent as oceans that spit
silvered crescents and fallen fragments of the moon—
a world where he was doomed to drown.
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