belly full of scraps

he will no longer chase
false hopes left scattered
tiring of being nothing
feeling himself
fading away
from the world
keeping him carefully
held at arms length

the wind chimes sing
in the darkness
while he sits huddled
afraid to open the blinds
to the nothing outside
the reflection of
himself in sterile skies

the weather says
there are storms coming
he can sense it is
a nasty beast growing
perhaps strong enough
to erase the false tunnels
painted meticulously
onto the blank walls
to lure him face first
as he sprints after
the dread spectre of hope

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