feeling immortality
amidst reverie
then dead
to the world
revived
by a new rush
of thoughts
yet no memory
of gainful reward
but dutiful self-surveillance
in response
amid convictions
too worn
as immortality’s burden
dressed down
naked
staring back
at stimulation’s monotony
repetition
as back slapping awareness
that has no content
yet symbolic
but shapeless
and impending
as an acute respect
for it’s imposing presence
invisible friends
that you’d never meet
like words
though rich inside
and hollowed
into finished sentences
yet that thin breath
leading
to swallowed whispers
mentored
by self delusion’s
accompaniment
conclusions
as fault lines under foot
crawling becomes
the noise of broken parts
that toll
loud enough
as if nothing else is said
a privacy practice
in resolution’s finale
are we immortals
as souls
who pose in passing
on the runway
to oblivion’s daybreak?
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