Seven And Thirteen
The trivial little things left in your wake
Are beloved terminally infected limbs
It is not the firing squad but the blindfold
That makes us tense
The loss of perfection leaves no cause to persist
In searching, leaving me longing
For the day that finally smothers all hope
Are beloved terminally infected limbs
It is not the firing squad but the blindfold
That makes us tense
The loss of perfection leaves no cause to persist
In searching, leaving me longing
For the day that finally smothers all hope