Eyes half-closed,
the world bleeds slow—
a smear of noise,
a hum too loud.
Thoughts calcify,
stacked stones, heavy
as sleep.
I move but don't;
a puppet, a shadow—
arms draped in fog,
nerves dulled to dust.
Life unfolds,
unasked, unhurried,
like smoke curling,
like ash drifting,
and I—
silent, sunk,
carved in cold stone.
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