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what happens to souls that die lonely?

do they wrap themselves up in brokenness;

soar into the skies;  like contrails left by passing planes mix with clouds,

unnoticed?

 

what becomes of the soles of feet that have walked miles of lonely;

thirsted for waters of unwanted love and lust?

 

what names are conjured up by tongues that no longer curl in languages of lies patched on hearts of fake desire?

 

forgive me for all the ticks of time at which i loved you in a foreign language.

Categories: Uncategorized

Neo Musangi

i like to think of myself as a stubborn non-human organism experiencing existential nightmares as though i were human. after numerous almost-failed attempts at long-form, i now call myself a poet (which i use as an excuse to be cynical about life).

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