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And I fall…

Again and again.

I drag my roots through the mud,

tangling my tired tresses through tracks of tragedy.

Here I go again…

Placing the shackles upon my shins,

binding and bracing my bones to hold myself below the tide.

But wait…

The hand is not my own.

The hand stretched before me is not familiar.

These veins, these bones, this flesh is a faux familiar.

Something moves me, manipulates me, manipulates this mass.

I’m frightened…if I say it aloud…it is only fear that…that moves before me.

I follow the fear that leads me where I am going to.

Here lies my heart. Here lies the flesh. Here lies this body, this paper corpse blowing, billowing in the wind.

Here lies the beginning of my end.

But not by this right hand.

Not by the breath that escapes these tired lips.

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