I see nothing,
behind the drawn curtains
of my eyes, my eyes.
My thoughts a photograph,
yet felt by his presence.
A smirk, goofy grin,
among hate, of pure innocence?
It doesn't matter.
He's already dead,
among living breaths.
Shards of black,
strung loose, tattered.
Like earth and dirt.
Such a gravestone,
already carved through his mind.
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