Pocket full of
Dead leaves
That were growing

Respectively new angles that
I don’t care to view these things from
Praying to
New angels
That were walking

Ashes, Ashes
Breathing smoke through my lips
The least threatening dragon
To grace the pages
Of a nursery story-book

It isn’t that we’re spinning,
Our feet firmly fixed on the ground
Which happens to be
Aimlessly through time

We all fall down.
We all fall down.

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