Deconstructed resemblance bearing humanity, Once...twice...three times bearing a grave with idle sins and roaming hands. Dreamers aren't meant to live here, idealists don't even exist. What once was body, now born without a soul.
Broken Glass mimics Cataracts, clouding things as times go on, Consciousness faded, just as the clouds dissapate. Like my eyes torn, asunder by Broken glass.
Sometimes Gods talk to me, speaking in unintellible unimaginable things, all around. Symbols, to words to emotions. My humanity fades with each word. Closer to the ground.
What is faith underside another belief to the God that things exist beyond those of soundless mentionings from when you were young and alive and naive.