The Stories In Between

in solitude we find that which brings a lost dialogue on the contemplation of what it means to be without the need for admiration or

This continuum of madness That plagues throughout Wringing hands and picked scabs Passed from seed to full bloom In the blink of an eye That

there’s a reckoning coming birthed by the hand of man that will shatter the brittle foundation on which we stand, foretold by false, celluloid prophets,

Clandestine visions offered Of an eternity swept under The rug with fanciful assurance Too late, in the end To crawl out from under The weight