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it rings, it sings, it crackles
internal furnace generating heat
the sound of breath, of heartbeat
a music we must have unless
the grave has spread its open mouth
to take us in to hide us
from the desperate search
for self, for something
to pin hope on when truth is
all is nothing, all is formless
nonexistence we have conjured
in our hubris into shapes
that mimic that which
might be life
when cells subside and cease
their mindless whine
for more, for look at me
for that moment
they were born for, death,
then silence is.