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โง ๐“ƒ๐’ถ๐“‚๐‘’

โ› ๐š—๐šŠ๐š–๐šŽ โœ
/neษชm/
(๐š—.)
๐šŠ ๐š ๐š˜๐š›๐š ๐š˜๐š› ๐šœ๐šŽ๐š ๐š˜๐š ๐š ๐š˜๐š›๐š๐šœ ๐š‹๐šข ๐š ๐š‘๐š’๐šŒ๐š‘ ๐šŠ ๐š™๐šŽ๐š›๐šœ๐š˜๐š— ๐š˜๐š› ๐š๐š‘๐š’๐š—๐š ๐š’๐šœ ๐š”๐š—๐š˜๐š ๐š—, ๐šŠ๐š๐š๐š›๐šŽ๐šœ๐šœ๐šŽ๐š, ๐š˜๐š› ๐š›๐šŽ๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐š›๐šŽ๐š ๐š๐š˜.

โŠฑ โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€เฎ“เน‘โ™กเน‘เฎ“ โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€ โŠฐ

scattered.
like still-burning ash.
gleaming and glaring
like shards of broken glass.
each piece, each syllable- reflecting the world which is too full of life to live itself.

only one of those broken pieces,
shimmers and shines
and then shouts and etches itself in your mind,
like only one lost sequin
embedded in you nail bed,
calling you its home.

it lingers
on the edge of quivering wet eyelashes at night,
at the corner of the lip, following a 'good morning',
echoing from the faded yellow of a twilight.
in a desolate white field where syllables are running haphazardly,
you will catch your own with ease-
just like the sky always catches a new-born moon.

it's your memory.

it's your memory.

it's all yours, but you still refuse to own it.
you let others own it for you,
like children who let the world own their hearts,
like teens who let the world own their minds,
like adults who let the world own their souls.

it all ends in scattered cognomens of a fallen empire,
lying here and there,
with nobody to pick them up,
not even to abuse them, exploit them.
nobody cares because
after all,
it's just a nomenclature, right?

i wish,
in a world of yesterday's tomorrows,
in a world of pseudonyms,
we could give to ourselves our own names today,
i wish,
we could own our own names today.

โŠฑ โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€เฎ“เน‘โ™กเน‘เฎ“ โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€โ”€ โŠฐ

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