the dishwasher
sounds the same
as when the quiet
becomes too heavy
and my thoughts
swish about without
rhyme nor reason
agitating the filth
clinging to my mind
leaving a bleached
skull staring up
at an indifferent
darkened ceiling
where sleep is
a tall tale told
in whispered voices
so as not to disturb
the emaciated corpse
of sundered hope

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