Llama writ. Bleat

When I strike, that bolt of realization flashes against pinpricked sky and cloud.

When I forget, they still call me “chosen”.

When I act, wake of destruction rippled against my families feelings.

When I believe, They watch over me as guides to folly and fiction.

When I leave, they walk with me to the end.

When I wake, they will still call me by name.

When I sleep, they chant and loom.

When I write, I don’t make much sense.



That’s great! 15151515

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