How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
seems any intellectual pursuit
when those golden eyes droop in memory,
and even the imagined brush of speckled grey
topples flat the house of cards I've huddled in.
I'm tired. I can't taste. I can't stand. I can't.
I didn't think it would be so hard to say goodbye,
but thought has no place in the eye
of this tall storm.
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