It's the moment of pre-impact
Whose great pain causes 
Trepidation sweats
And the terrible agony
Of brown darkness

Useless, no-good, poorly
Thought-out are the
Most likely responses
At that distorted 
Statistical moment

And the head crashes into
The heart while both 
Hands keep the windpipe
From playing any new music

Because of course that would be
A waste of sound as well
According to what
Is certainly coming

As the against-the-grain
Shoots slivers under every
Fingernail and scratches 
Its chalkboard, according to
The dastardly whims
Of every reviewer

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