Mugen

well,
it all ends with a whimper;
with a silent cry,
a shout that doesn’t leave your lungs
just echoes
inside the walls where your being resides.

in the palms of your hands it freezes
feeling as you felt back then;
inside, it caves in and leaves black dots
for you to carry as pits in the sand.

I don’t know!
never knew.
why cats sat as they sat
why mornings came when they shouldn’t
and why oranges are named like that;

I just knew how they felt, and went with that.

cheated, of course,
lied and betrayed by my own self;
for believing in nothing–
somehow,
seems to leave you with belief in all the things instead.

then nights became longer,
days robotic,
and words– 
themes I just took out of my pockets
and used to fill the absence I created for myself.

never knew, never knew…
saw prophecies unfold
just after my fingers typed them
and believed them!
insane, I know,
probably the only thing I know for sure,
this!
and the boredom that surrounds me when
their words in circles embrace my ears.

(I should’ve been a clown instead…)

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