:::sumtimes but not usually:::

there are times which i compare
to these and then i bite my tongue
i hold my mouth so still my mind
do not make known what you have learned.
ever close and call me back
push your whores and you attack
this is where they always go
a steeplechase, an open door.

a binding for the frail and decayed
whose bodies you take and you're unafraid
but too much, is not enough i fear
a human path, a forest clear.
sometime when i've laid down alone
i see them behind me, you their throne
i see you years behind me now
cast ahead by your self and doubt.
they are engraved with your nails and teeth
ever patient at your feet,
and i a sole possession of sorts
of some dream i'd made real
but forgotten at once.

 

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::