Wasted you think were the words wrought,
Ripened a million fortnights since; ripening in solitude between sheets stifling-
Prejudice's terrifying foster care.
Wasted you presume would be words returned,
So build papery airplanes instead,
... Your flights of puerile thrill scatter forth words wrought-
Publicized, my thoughts intimate.
And now Rot begins to yawn and stretch as Stubborn Silence pricks into awareness,
A heart ignored, a heart lost, all gravitating towards Nothingness...
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