secondly

Artificial smoke signals and silent warnings;
not even a proper hello
before the impending sarcophagi
berate themselves in an attic
made of twilight and despairing acacia.
Have I made myself a burden?
I may not be worth the trouble, if,
no, when, I eat a box of macaroni,
on the floor, so sullen.
Why do I seem to live dead
on the floor of existence lately?
While you brunch with Gestapo
where I cannot find you.

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