The equity spills at the chorus
The journal with rough edges and tears
The neverending sound of cadence
Believing in things not quite there
Enjoying the beauty in sorrow
The book full of spirits despise
That perfect definition thereof
Of that quiet, cold summer's night.
And in essence a face not quite tormented
Yet in entirety pours out the soul
Who are we just to judge without knowing?
Yet to know is to Big Brother's fold.
In obscurity creeping minds wonder
The obsolete completeness of faith
For the surely without a doubt broken
Grasp on to some things better left unknown.
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