Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, May 19, 2005

The Future Holds My Never

How can you wield such authority
over me?
Your eyes,
Your voice,
your very being
seems to dicatate my
every movement and thought,
and I want only to forget!
I want whiteness,
Screen-snow,
Static.
Anything but
the reality of
the feelings of now.

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