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Voices

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I hear the voices from within,

they howl like a winterstorm,

eery and darkly foreboding. 

 

I hear the screams

of those voices,

ever present,

and forever. 

 

I hear nothing real anymore. 

Hear nothing but the unreal.

So, I write and remember 

how years earlier I had a life.

 

I had a definite form then,

now I’m painted by Dali. 

What more can I say?

Not all endings are epic

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