The Lost

A sickness fills my chest
my self
millions of pieces rattling
like stones
like marbles
rolling across a polished floor.
There's no safety in numbers
under my skin
when the truths I bear and bare
dangle from my lips in bloody ribbons.
You can't fight with withered fists
or time or holding of hands
when you can't see an inch in front of your face.
The lost and dead are slick as ice
and day and night are meaningless
in caves
in holes
in the dark places your parents warned you about.
Who says that happiness can't be lightning in your hands
crisp and crackling under your fingertips
so bright that you have to look away and away and away
if even for a moment.
Concentration is irrelevant
when hold fast is that advice that's easier said than done.

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