See well the lives of past an prevalence
I see, though my eyes are empty holes, each
puckering like the thirsty lips of a long dead desert wanderer,
willingly deprived of their burdens,
I worry not for the sun.
seeming sighted even in your blind faith,
will let me know when there is light enough to need at all those orbs I lack.
I feel well the sacrifice and do make sacred,
unfit for the idiot force of the used car salesman,
such a word to abuse so readily.
Take no stock in my words, my
if that is your choice.
Know only that darkness that you may craft,
find the first-born blade, that keened
that makes you feel like part of something bigger than the germ of your mind's scope
Carve all that you see.
Mark it and scar the face of the waiting world,
but know well that your limits in wide-eyed vision
are this maimed man's greatest allies.
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