We spent the blackness of our pens and ivory of keys
Trying to pierce the shell of the reluctant masks
So we hear a snare but the heart shakes with the bass
No blade sits deeper than four strings and a bow.
Those dancing harmonies trampled over my composure
And the harp shred through my Kinkade, spilled my ghosts.
Who knew that the muse moonlit as a janitor.
But no one told me that he couldn’t mop up the fog.
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i went to wcac today with matt because my church doesn't have electricity after the killer storms this week...and for a brief moment, i expected to see you since everyone's coming back to wheaton now. then i remembered you're in china, and i was sad.
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