| this_discontent_travels | ||
| Death of a Rose |
In another language, it travels in sand, it becomes a wind that shifts when you stare, it numbers your footsteps, it haunts your boredom. This distontent is well versed, other breaks begin it's matchstick melody, it let's the voices of a erstat reconning humble it's beggars' regard. When it poses to please your senses, it beguiles a feeling of remorse. The words are barren, it's fate is written. Begin to believe and begin to disbelieve, it's a shackless world when the waste has your soul. |
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