No Comfort in Absolutes
Matthew Canning
They mute our confessions with immutable symbols and distance
And cast our swollen voided bodies into beachless oceans
This
This is the sound
This is the sound they make
This is
This is the sound they make when they die
But I can't I promise you they eventually do
You sleep for days upon days upon days
Upon years upon years
And still they harass you
Paralyzed in an endless tides
We evaporate
Evaporate and wait
This
This is the sound
This is the sound they make
This is
This is the sound they make
