She sings to me in lesser times

Days are one by one the same: drudgery and turmoil, pain and anguish, worry and concern.

White-hot pavement scores the air with deformed breath, a wisp of illusion raised in waves that bend and distort the world.

Havoc cries from lonely breasts pierced by living daggers.

And I weep.

What comes in these shadows that torment?  What anguish must I suffer beneath this weight?

Oh, how she sings to me, her voice a siren upon the wind, a dagger opening old wounds as easily as it draws new ones made of flesh.

Call to me, dearest, for your voice paints life’s picture that too many ignore.

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