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Contact.
The sound penetrates through the walls,
The pain courses through tissue, muscle, bone.
For a single moment,
There’s relief.
Time.
That hand ticks over and over,
Mimicking, teasing, manipulating life.
Never ceasing,
Taking control.
Stranded.
Alone in this cold dark place,
A myriad of thoughts, actions, deeds untouched.
There is no feeling,
No hope.
Contact.
Bone penetrates the skin,
Releasing more than blood and pain.
A symphony of relief,
Pain becomes destitute.









