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The prospect of waking like this,

Sitting in bed wrenching sobs like bile

From the depths of my empty heart…

Or is it full?

Full of the empty space

where you should be.

An oxymoron.

I am so filled up

by the soulless chasm

by the mindless void,

it blocks out the sun.

You were my sun

my light bringer

But now only pale shadowy

spectres fill the moonlit sky.

We become I,

And I am not The I

I was with you!

All bluster and bravery gone.

I shrink into the night,

tightly balled-up…

Awaiting the next kicking,

the morning will bring.

Always winter and never Christmas.

Dale M. Beck

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