A blessed hand to cover the cursed mouth born of faith when tiptoeing around fli ghts of fancy informs sonic acrobatics. An esoteric words for what never held tr ue; a complicated rite forcing an answer through. These are prayers for a sense left for dead or an elegy on the end of a life I once led. Learning that we inha bit a bedtime story, prophets whisper to fools. Footbound and adrift and losing a game for which we've written the rules. Rip my heart to pieces. Scatter them a ll to the wind. And it's an ironic twist of fate, this bit of hypocritical fare, when we're taught to look passed the suitable answers, watch them dissolve and not even care.
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