Ce Monde Illusorie

This scene.
The setting sun,
Elopes with the day,
Leaving only the Moon.

This being.
This repressed being,
This chained behemoth,
Teeming beneath my skin,
Wishing only to be heard.
Screaming, tongueless, silent.

Unless…

Unless the se…

No.
These words are unworkable.
And besides, I live here.
With my anxieties and my dread.

This blackness.
This night.
It is the selfsame night in which
All my life has been lived hitherto.

Probably the selfsame as it always shall.

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