Their words are as phantoms of deceit, tarnishing angels wings as silence kills and their blood drips in their shallow lakes of where the rivers once roamed.
To what eyes shall not grasp shall we not know,
Our wounds lay infected, unable to heal, shall we look to other skies for a reality we wish it there. For it's denile kills the flesh for which we choose to not care to see or feel it's pain theat burns down inside, for our tears stay dry and our hearts cold. (i'm not done yet but this is what I have at the moment)
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