i've learned these years in pulses an rhythms etched into
stone by leaving my heart in too many shells before really
settling into my own. take it away.
and now i'm going through motions but not moving on,
and i'm expecting irony to linger long after humour has gone.
and what's left to feel when time tells tall tales of what
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may have could have never was. solutions. solutions
always few and far between, yet just ahead. left for dead.
turned aside and abandoned to reality instead. and so we're
aimless caught behind and left without, its worse than
morbid and less than funny the way it's turned out
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