Forty Seven : Deep, Dark, Little Ball of Something

Something is swallowing me whole
Deep, dark, little ball of something
Stirring in my gut
Yearning to speak words
To communicate
But the thing that lives above
In the musty attic with a blonde straw roof
Tells it to hush as it neglects to blink
Staring at the hands of a clock
With a crack in the glass
Hands stuck like children
Cookie jars
The deep, dark, little ball of something
Musters up a sound
And the half burnt twins that live between the two
Help to push the sound to life
With raspy tones
And wheezing gasps
That deep, dark, little ball of something
Just has to find the words

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