Truth is a wasteland of frauds and friends, stand-by is a bitter remark in the dim miles of grey. That shadow falls hard on the addict, with no warning the waves turn violent- church is a way to stay right, but I'm just not good enough to be saved. Never to be woke, silently sleeping the sorrow of Sunday; all light brings is loneliness. Touch by a calloused hand- My mind faintly distorted.
My truth is a tongue of plenty; holy world that shines so bright.
Gone.
Stressed Out!
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1 comment:
I really, really like like this one. I like the imagery a lot. I like the "Never to..." line. Very cool.
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