If these utterances could be clothed,
And made presentable,
Then is it at all possible
I may be understood?
But silence has a habit
Of closing in around
The scream,
Leaving it unheard.
Leaving me without a voice,
Without a choice.
Darkness falls,
But it's not still,
Only ill
Can come of this
Thick, cloying, velvet blackness.
Name it!
Shame it!
But you can't, can you?
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