We’re all just tethered rags, modestly flaunting the same stains.
By Summers end, the tangible is all that won’t remain.
Beneath the bruised skin that only shows what we can feign,
the stenciled souls that sleep ‘till death are wandering the same.
So hold your white knuckles, and I’ll cleanse my bloody palms.
Cast your anchor to the infinite until the water calms.
I still believe in saviors, and though my faith says God is dead
I trust this heart to find true north before I listen to my head.
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