piercing whispers.
they manage to reach my ears
acidic words.
shoot out of tongues, ricochet off the walls of a small room
they do nothing but hone the weapon we are all armed with.
making ruffles out of lines,
jagged edges out of circles.
these vowels and consonants molded,
between teeth and tongue,
they penetrate through skin and bone
through Now and Then.
we are prisoners of war.
trapped between lines,
trapped only with this weapon to fidget with.
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