Poetry: Unedited Freeform

Sometimes we dream of really nice things, 
And then we die. 
Our body betrays us
 In the moments we least expect
 It hides from our hearts
 And says: We are our own.
There are three things that can always be found in mass
I have been all and both and some. 
It's very hard to start once you've stopped.
must things always be tinted with a viscid shade of black
where happier things are rendered more mute, 
and hearts so warm are chilled in a time?
this kind of curse is plenty murderous--
a form of death that burns, 
heralding the quiet of the soul, 
the fading of a smile, 
the slow slumber of connection
Because this is a mark 
that chooses not to leave; 
increasing, drowning
all of you

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