Wrestling with the grave predisposition,
Clinging to a trusting
nature,
Wanting desperately to find
A simple something to
believe.
Hoping that the fangs have
been retracted,
Waiting silently in shadows
til
The shackles turn to butter,
Yearning for a fast reprieve.
Walk into the den of fire and
lions,
Leave your weapons at the
doorstep,
Slide the deadbolt from the
outside,
Blindfold covering your eyes.
Judgment takes a permanent
vacation,
Blinded by the situation.
Pavlov’s pet in its creation
As you listen to the lies.
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