Something pinches, I can’t tell you what
It scratches my insides in the gentlest of
ways
is it corrosion of decay or crumbling of incomplete
structures?
It sounds like a machete in a distance, a
buzz of a bee in the room
It is replete with repetition, and has an
innocence of the unknown
It thuds sometimes, bringing me to a
standstill, for just a second not more
Then it leaves me just as shyly it had come
in,
Leaving me with the echo of its existence,
the vestiges of its itch.
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