Thursday, March 9, 2017

Pens Are Made For Writing

Devils make great bedfellows, if you dream of dying in your sleep
If the stones you cast carry no weight
Feather-light and frivolous
Free of fate (and other “finer” things)
Poor, simple pacing
Set by those with no fire in their lungs
Without a taste of the moments we should be drinking in
Just plug your nose and open the hatch
Down to the pit of your stomach, where every decision you will face is already made
Don’t tell me you know nothing of fate
Choices sleep much sounder than you think.


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