I sigh Over the dead worlds, Which lie Strewn at my feet Like the broken toys Of a child; I sigh and wonder Useless what-ifs, While autumnal memories Scurry Through empty passages In a brain Made tired from Too much idle thought. What have I bought With my twenty silver pieces? Even dust Has more value Than the emptiness Echoing through My hollow soul. Who values loneliness? Who but one insane Would pawn A loved-one For such nothingness? But, alas, I am all too sane, Too well knowing The hell and heaven I confused. My reward was just; Harsh, but fair. Yet, when I am bowed with age, I shall still Recall the page I ripped From my Book of Life, In hopes Of rewriting Its plot and theme. But the plot Took a twist unforeseen, Leaving Just an empty dream.
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