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Like icy tendrils stretched over dew-soaked field.

Like plot twists where primary figures are unceremoniously killed.

Like the shrill trill of alarm bells

Like the foreboding promise of perpetual hell.

Like the sell of an heirloom to barter for life.

Like the eyes behind the hands behind the knife.

Like the strife of accepting uneasy peace.

Like rumblings preceding volcanic release.

You are gripping; you are disease.

Your deceit foments dis-ease.

And reality becomes

The degree to which

We retreat from that

Which depletes us.

Incomplete us.


It's a lonely island when it becomes just us.

When silent Killers say, "but what about us?"

Both grind sanity to dust.

Listen. You can't believe in God

When it's in hate you trust.

And I won’t believe in fool’s gold —

that love only corrodes and rusts.

Lord, help us grow,

Beyond what we know.


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