Hollows

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Shall I wind my sorrow 'round the stems of letters, wash it in ink and hang it on a page ?
Shall I leave it by the door for the rain to carry away ?
The days are round and grey, and smoothly do they go by, but their flow's not strong enough to pull along the mill in my chest.
I fret, I claw at my cheeks, but to no avail.
Fear runs strongest when apathy wins.

What is it, I wondered, that you seek in the see ? What else, if not the path to oblivion ?