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Drained

308/365

A short poem about friends becoming distant as we age.

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Memories of the “used to know”
Left turn into alone

Stamping the clock draws a line
The steam whistle of separation
Same place to different faces
Different time the same reasons
Another wall to drill through
Ten now
Still not through the first
The tool’s battery died
More rains from heaven
A fortress of isolation
No energy for the cord
No power for effort
Drained trying to not get buried
Not get forgotten