little deaths

reel to reel images
of a life slipped away
creep from the cold side of the bed
icy hands on shoulders
shake you awake at night
remaining there
loneliness magnified
by the window glass and the tape on the screen
staring through broken blinds
longing to hear a train whistle
cursing the world for it’s happiness
and fine furnishings
you begin the ritual once again
little deaths
instead of sheep

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