Twirling a frayed thread

Afraid of what it was

I must’ve said

Because

It does

Sting

To be aware of

So much

Of such

A comforting feeling

High above

Once valid

Now stunting

Pallid

Infected by

What I wanted

To do

Haunted I never did

Instead I hid

From you—

I saw it coming,

The plummeting mallet

Pummeling

My solid granite

And soft gold

Into the cold

Crumbling grit

Numbing the bit

Of hope I hold

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