Ce Monde Illusorie

This.
The setting sun, eclipsed
By the rays of the Moon,
Elopes with the day,
Leaving only night.

This.
This repressed being,
This chained behemoth,
Teeming beneath my skin,
It wishes only to be heard.
But it cannot be heard.

Unless…

Unless the se…

No.
These words are unworkable.
And besides, I live here.
I live within pain, within dread.

This.
This night.
It is the selfsame night in which
All my life is lived.

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