The Consequence

Hand-in-hand, we are walking into this blinded.
Our sentence comes to us in forms of eight-foot tall waves.
Swelling to where you cannot see and agreeable or unsounds state on top.

Our purposeful inertia keeps us standing at this shore line
with no will to change.
The wave hit us with its strong, crude knowing.
Luring us all with the grin of our future chicanery.
Its craving, sunken eyes see our hands clenched together,
but tastes the impurity and betryal in our secretive, beating pulses.
Stamped out. Caught.

As we are sucked under, the salt water tucks us into our disservance
with a lid of our lies.
Trapping us to suffer behind a strong-hold of locks.
Still, hand-in-hand, we consume the unsound state in our lungs.
We smell the liquid consequence down our throats.

Yet, why are we still hand-in-hand,
if our fingers that latch us together in this fight,
are made of prevarication?
Paddling, kicking, water-filled attempts, some let go.
Unfaithful.

The eight-foot wave has been transformed
into an eight-inch ceiling that we cannot rid.
Panic is drawn on
with a blur of consistancy.
But hand-in-hand are still the hopeful.
The rocks who will sink to the bottem
with their honest promises.

The Consequence

PaigeWest

Joined May 2009

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