I speak no ill of you in word or thought
nor in act nor deed
no malice crosses my mind in reflection
just the gentle anguish of love

My suffering is my own to bear
sleep wakened in sweat and terror
there is no peace in night’s repose
nor in the light of daytime sun

I pace in endless steps from room to room
in dark or well-lit hours
restless mind with anxious tread
held under the weight of crushing speculation

There is no serenity to my soul
in these benighted hours
I curse the moment of my birth with each passing second
tendrils of self-loathing wrapped around me like a shroud

I have no fear left to gain
now that all the horrors have proven true
insular and bereft of hope or joy
there can be no rescue in callous disregard

I would wish to fall to dreamless sleep
the coma of the damned and distraught
and wake not though the world should fall
to rubble around my still silent form

Let me fall then, a failure of being
as profound as loneliness and sorrow
or the distance between the stars

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