It sits upon me a hundred miles long, it's immense weight stealing my breath.
It squeezes my throat with even the thought of utterance, poised to rip away the sound.
Pry these cold dead fingers that obscure the truth, that you might hear it beat again.
Too exhausted fighting through the shrouds, I close my eyes drifting away quiet like death: left with the hope I might awaken in yours.
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