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Mirror cracks

Reflection scarred

Eyes averted from the shape of time

Memories float like shadows

Linger and die

Scattered shards of broken dreams

Litter the mind

Betrayed and forsaken by no one

And self

Hope rising ghostly pale

Welcomed and feared

Life suspended on frail threads

Heartbeat lifts and falls

Straining to the sound

Of one hand clapping.




He closed his eyes and lay still. The room was dark and quiet, his breathing so shallow, he wondered if he was alive. Something was there with him in the expanse of silence. Without fear, he listened. Something was there, close by, within reach. He lay without moving, hands flat by his sides. The darkness continued, stretching endlessly beneath his eyelids, frozen pupils locked in an invisible stare. Something lay beside him, touching and not touching. His fingers twitched and then stopped. If he was breathing, he was not aware of it. He slowly lifted his hands and placed them on his chest. He could feel the slightest of movements, so insignificant as to be a figment of his thought. He tried to will himself to breathe. With a gasp, he stirred and opened his eyes. The darkness was impenetrable. He turned his head and looked. He saw nothing. He closed his eyes and lay still.



Art: John William Waterhouse: Sleep and his Half-brother Death