My hope hung on a strand so small, it was merely made of the stuff of dreams.
Tormented it was by the dying wish of a man grasping for air under the weight of a thousand chests filled to the brim with a gasp for air.
"Where do we go, where do we go", they scream their weary sigh.
Time passes and sound dissipates, ripples in the water speak to the once born, long forgotten souls.
Language unlearned, communication freeborn on the wind.
Where is there something worth remembering, how do we remember what is worth saving, how do we save a long forgotten dream dashed to pieces by the torrent of night we call day.
Beaten by the very thoughts that kept us alive.
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