The knell rings throughout the blooming afternoon, a tone of the nihil 
Morning static throughout the mourning dew
In the glass I remain unchanged 
Though I feel rearranged 
I can damn the day you left, but there's no damning that river 
That mad river whose madness comes from somewhere beyond the bend
That pale river unaware of the fall and the salt to come
In the glass I remain unchanged 
Though I feel rearranged
The knell echoes, the sound after the sound, the birth of the necrophile
Black bile slowly seeps from the bone into the blood
The will of gravity becomes my sole direction 
Uncertainty, my only destination
Unwelcome, the knell lingers in the cobwebs of the abyss 
The sound of the void, a language of the blurred
James C. Attwood is an undergraduate of the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley.

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