It's funny years should pass so negligently,
Sprawling a cunning string of non-events –
What has occurred is somehow poor and toothless
I cannot grab a sense of me throughout.
Pains go numb, but not because I reach a higher power,
Some shred of tolerance
Towards my idling absolution.
It still hurts,
But touching it no longer comes in hand, like in the old days –
It's getting less and less innocent.
No one suspects that I'm unwell,
Not even I can trace my heart's true mien
Among the pompous clutter of self-deceiving stances,
To stab it in my skin and prove them otherwise…
And all they do is think I'm past the evil threshold
On the safe side of darkness,
On the kind half of the moon,
Which complements its halfway horror.
I'm not stronger
I've simply grown a thicker frost…
R. Mutt 2017
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