Ever more

Far away from Home and lonesome

The solitude suffocates

pressing in

it fills the lungs

there is no Transcendence

no Metamorphosis

only pressure

the intoxication of sleep, long withheld.

As if falling from great heights

a thrill and terror

no bottom

only depth

no relief

only reservation

The Knowing of the Self, long denied.

The breath slows and eyes open

Dashed upon the rocks

and drowned

not dead

only broken

not defeated

only downed

not transformed

only scarred

The need to endure, long repressed.

There must be more.

The End

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