Absolute in my beliefs, unable to recognize this sound as echo. Will it ever be the same? Can these hands, limp and mangled, lift us up? Or will these breaks heal as they're set. Will we not climb? We reach up, but fear contains our impetus. These cracks inside fuse. Carry these habits not of cloth but of faults and these flaws draped on ourselves just the same. Not shielding from sin but providing comfort in sloth and failure. Cast this off. These pits of fear in our psyche solidifying into finger holds, rungs on the ladder of our descent. Our grip is sure but it is so easy to to let go. I will climb out of this. These words fall flat. Here I am again, broken apart in front of reason. Set in these ways bent bones draped in flesh grasping but never reaching it
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