I ask you, just who is it that we know; When a stranger asks us to cry for them and we sit down and bleed our hearts across the table, the rogue milk of life coursing through veins of recycled wood and spilling to the floor, our agonies are bird songs masquerading in unoiled playgrounds, the frictitious noise of our childhood joy reanimates that unmistakable suspicion that we are only life.

Copyright 2020 Sonny Clarke
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