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In the quietest stall
Had I but remembered
That the neck solely belongs
To the crook of the cushion--
That such things come along
When turning to your own deafest ear
Were I but well rested,
I might not be here
Silent's the air in this unfriendly place
Whorls of thoughts are dust motes in space
The stomach protests my harshest famine
Spread through the flesh, and rooted within
Were I but protected
In this quietest stall
From the assailing Grim
Against these four walls
While there's no clocks, bones walk in glory
In choir the mirrors mock
Memento mori
The tiles still ring
With echoes of death
I fear that my sunshine
Will soon all be spent
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