Merely Existing

I dwell in this shadow,
this incomplete desecration,
and, in my audacity,
call it life,
as if, by some perversion,
it qualifies existence.
Life it is not,
but some prolonging death,
a living condemnation
or undead decay,
that neither dwindles
nor deteriorates,
but persists in gaunt continuity
and macabre perseverance,
ever degrading and repeating,
repeating and degrading.
And I call it life?

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