Cure

Wings made out of never never flew
Where down below the fields of new elysium nobody knew
And shadows never dappled light when seen by very few
For seeds made out of seeming always seemed to be the dreams we never grew

Arms of never ending never yearned
Below the rigid carapace of cold where lonely summers burned
Creating a facade of shadow figures unreturned
For longing made of odds so very long becomes the longing that we spurned

Vessels full of loss were never light
The wings becoming shale before they even knew the word for flight
That wrapped around – an armor made of ardor that despite
The shifting underneath it was a ship and so a sheath in deepest night

Woes becoming woeful always were
The passages to ledges where the precipice is looming sure
To sink all the forever that we never did prefer
To seeds we made of seeming and of odds so very long upon a ship that won’t deter we carried plagues of our desire to land without a cure

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