Simple logic: In the days where smoking mirrors are normal during self sabotaging times.

Scraping up a dime, to flip it with a motionless grind, dim with the muck darkening the shine.

Rewind time to capture lost glory trapped in the mind, grasping the concept of opportunities presented as the window closing, walking a thin line.

Complicated status without moral thinking, space, no gravity, limited view with staggered seating.

Foot at door as it closes to the wrong choice, fallen to an abyss of tears, drowning in sorrow that’s moist for years.

What the fuck does that mean? Reread and attain the concept of life, distance and imperfected gleam!

The Urban Psalmist

Is back!

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