–. — -..-. — -.

My skin crawls fervent;

horrified —

and the sound it makes

is Morse.

The code intones

the following words:

“It’s over, it happened —

It’s Done.”

Some say comfort is

luxury

And my flesh?

Derelict.

But if will truly comes from

ones heart,

then the braille on my breast says

“Go on.”

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2 thoughts on “–. — -..-. — -.

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