wisp

unsure
if this
waivering
feeling is
insubstantiality
or
insignificance
but well aware
it is the varnish
keeping me
as unimportant
as inhumanely
possible
the gray skies
do little
but increase
the permanence
in the way
my words
fall muted
upon
deaf ears
screaming
into a vortex
of sound
yet never saying
a thing

the errant thoughts are wisps of betterment layered across the cross section of interred dreamspasms, lost in the unblinking eye of blind passion, scarred by the casual swipes that leave nothing but empty vestibules to stare longingly into

it doesn’t
matter

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