Decoherence

What is this that I feel?

This weighted emptiness?

As if the wait itself is filled with meaninglessness.

What is this that I feel?

This quiet anguish?

As if the stillness itself is filled with angriness.

What is this that I feel?

These unbalanced paradoxes?

As if sanity itself laid in bed with confusion.

What is this that I feel?

This illusive fascination?

As if the darkness itself is inviting me in.

What is this that I feel?

This vexing confrontation?

As if listening to my heart itself breaks my promises.

What is this that I feel?

This incoherent expression?

As if writing itself ends with a fragmented reflection.

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