When it seems too hard,
Stop. And it is me alone That I am trying to convince. And it may be that you will not. On and on you’ll fly, perhaps, Into that bright flash Of brilliant light That awaits “the faithful” But I am not; faithful that is, To the God of my own ambition. I am a fickle follower, A traitor. And I both hate And admire myself for it. And it dies a slow death Within my bosom. In the meantime, I chant the mantra In the hopes that it will take. Comments are closed.
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