Kicking at the opaque tongues
I'm settling for every lie and sound that follows the fabric.
The rhythm of what they want to hear is creeping in their ears
And in their heads.
Do I choose to hear the whimpers?
Why am I nothing to the wind?
Cracks in the night are fogging into your cuts,
and you refuse to be a part of something bigger.
Words like "let go" written gracefully across the wounded lips,
and the lies come out at night.