“Everything is written nothing more to write”
Conflict is a bag of cliché; a rhetorical sight.

I’m stitching torsos with mismatching heads,
The limbs fall apart, when I hold them tight.

It’s been aeons now, I’m waiting desperately
To whom will I narrate, my tales full of fright.

My heart is convulsing, who’s calling my name?
Hallucinations plenty is the shape of my night.

Someday a morning will replace this mourning,
Who lives till then; who survives this plight?

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