Cobbled together,
a thousand mornings are empty
cardboard boxes stacked in a wall,
held together with tape.
A strong wind, or a child
towel-caped like a superhero,
could demolish such a fragile façade,
in the green back garden,
swollen with spring rain.
Every carbon-copy black night,
a man seeks every distraction
from the anticipation of
never feeling happiness again.
Wincing at shadows,
writing and painting over the void
those fragments of beloved memories,
concave with the reversing
weight of nothing.
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