a husk with a name

becose is dead, and love is wounded, and hate and mistrust having flow freely in we weap and bare cracked teath at the ankers we so blindly hender to the young heart. filled like the striving hall of a friendly ship trying to stay with the wormth of a meal, mostly hot air, trying to pass the tareings off we blindly let rind in the blind poision of a still dieing demon loged in the heart. a pure thing perversed we weap and claw at the fool trying still to dig deap lost and blind. cut me loose if it helps you flout ferther, and still finding the fools pain being milked by lust, and knowing that lust a joke. besides the flouting pure gold of what was and still leting go of a better self for the fletting of noisy bright bells, liers nosie. we shoud know better for the world being full of fool teachers telling truthes and thinking them jokes. we weep finding only that we lost the path but we make a fool of the truth, and it bleeds and crys but the lier in the devil brain gets us, the qwick and the fast the the sad always rolls out the stone, and with perfound mocking laghter mistaken for a more perfounder truth then the one we sheared. in the first place mocked by god damed sinking ankers draging us down, we turn to dead clay beliving the heat we remenber is happeing now, and not just being dreassed up and struted around as some cheap hore, poleshed but bruken. sckreaming for rest and repreave from a perveras onslot of the false sun rising a cold light, a lieing anker, glagher, and pridfull, stupid and hidden, and oh so bint trying to stand but the cruch is a lie too, and lets us drop more deeper into the secrit dark, lost and having no way back we lie deeper and deeper into the dark, knowing the truth. easy as pie but painful as the captians wip. asleep and drunk scraping the buttem agine, and agine, and agine, and agine, as the salt pours in and we call it sweat blise, but salt in salt out, calling it gold. oh we are fools for not beating the feet that blindly step about the dark, crashing in glee the lovely pure happy deancing joys that we bore about the ankels of towers, we think we are shaking to the crashing beat, the war below, and if only we could see the death around the feet we called awer foundashion. so we lie, and lie, and lie, and lie, and lie, getting blinder and blinder, beliving that we are so high nothing can touch us. were god, we belive, more and more the heavy the chain becomes, teathering us to the bouttem, killing any chanch of flyit and reaching that lofty place we belive we are ocupiing but thats just another lieing dream so we weak clay crawl and fall and cromble and bleed and brake and strive wyil still liveing bound by lies trying to fly to fit to grow to clime to be better but bound by a bleeding chain hooked in the heart we made with love scraping the bottem and still the greatist fear of all the truth so we hide and bleed and say this is good this is life this is right the truth become a gun pointed at this life we let get so wrong and sick still keeping empty laghter ring real and pure making the pure a sick painted hore pumped and proded to dance the way the living do but the pure is coming apart the spiling suwige poreing forth makes us weep and bear week teeth made of fear and shaem eating all the sick up getting fat off posein saying its sweet but the pain and the sweat bleeding out of awere holey hearts cant be held back for long so we fall with nothing left but a bleeding truth a lie a husk with a name.