ages turn like butterfly wings in the grass and I watch my life drift by like a good novel drawing the reader on always wanting to know what happens next. Can the world be bought with a newly cleansed soul. All the sins of the child shall be passed on to the man. Only he can swallow mountains of puffed chests and pretending to remove the stains. Loves labors and sympathy fall upon empty ground. You play touch and go with my beaten soul. Your assistance should be refused but not denied. Reality is a step away from the street; a man must flourish under the strain of chains wrapped around irons vaults that hold what we all make real with belief. What will my children say I am? Pleasure teaches well, but only through pain do we truly learn if our ears can stay open to our own screams.
