It has taken me so long to understand,
The meaning of these wounds on my hands
That stretch to the very edge of my fingertips
Where I now hold this pen
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Why has it forgotten me?
If I created nothing, if I created dreams
If I have done everything to be this empty?
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Is it possible to give birth to a non-existence
To an intangible being fabricated out of despair,
Crafting its misery to perfection over the years,
Until it has begun to form me,
Until I have become the emptiness
And
Its reflection...?
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Copyright © Juan Antonìo Thomas, 2004
Copyright 2004 Spiritus_Frumenti
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