She writhes into the echoing shadows to tender her wounds. She instructs her body to remain shallow in its function. She goes unnoticed. There's something there, something lurking in the atmosphere. Concentrated at surving, something haunts her. Nostalgia it must be. The weak go on as if unaffected. Her fingers suspire for the feeling of being liberated by their strength to create songs. Now she embarks on this spiritual journey, cloaked in pseudo efficacy.
©nkosi
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