Shall I go walking on?
the habit grows
of biting back the tears.
One evening gone,
“And there shall come soft rain”
I plant my feet
And let the wind go rushing by
With it the voices
Crouch and gambol past
I am encased
In a rectangular box of glass
the teratoid visages I cannot see
I am alone
with me
struggling to cast off my reserve
and weep out toward the stars.
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