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Witness to the Spaghettification.

Trace the dark lines
around my eyes,
zoom in towards
this veiny sclera,

slip into the iris,
a desert, lacerated,
so arid, ultimately swallowed
at the event horizon:
utterly spaghettified

in your descent into
my endless voids,
swallowed
by all I have known.

Enjoy yourself,
take notes,
get back to me
with your diagnosis…

I already know the cure
you’ll recommend,
so save your strength
and spare

my worn eyes,
broken mind,
the advertising.

Just tell me what’s wrong
with me: if it checks
out, if I’m beyond doubt,
rest assured, I’ll follow

that path
till the end
of the lifeline

so long
as I’m able to assess
and assure it still

bathes
in light
and falls in line,

until all fades
to black
and I take flight.

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