I THINK I FOUND A NICHE

Books fall apart quite easy,

words can become nothing;

communication gone,

forgetting how once dreamed.

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Running them to exhaustion

shells appear too empty,

when emptiness made bliss.

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Torn to shreds, to small pieces

falling away from this

long lost in dead memories.

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Pointing a blind finger,

seeking obscurity�"

are you asleep or reading?