The truth is I don't know one thing about honesty.
I keep my fingers crossed behind my back, so you won't see.
You may think i learnt a lo since we last met,
but really I just haven't yet.
I am no further than I was when we last spoke about
the moment we collapsed under the myriads.
And then there came the day, we knew,
would make us want to rest and stay.
I'm taking pictures from the passenger's seat,
keeping records of the turns we take.
I'd love to say, we're not the same,
but our fears only have different names.
A restless tongue inside a loud mouth
tells tales of gold - we need to cut it out.
Grown in arm's reach of a time, that is no longer there.
A distance falling apart, to the delusion we call art.
And two years from now, I will be here again
and all the words I speak - repeat, repeat, repeat.
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