Control is a word
I loathe to hear.
For the moribund air
will cast its doubts, and
the timid ways
can shut its doors,
and yet time
will never be of waste.
It will always
be the essence.
Why is the body damned
for its fractured singing?
Why dampen more the spirit,
when the flesh is weak?
Excuses…
are tasteless.
Guess what?
I dare not make any.
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