Split up the sliding doors.
Your heart pulls west.
And that gold medal around your neck sets it back east, a bit.
A modest object took all your trust.
Stolen of its content,
Held down 'til it rusted.
Reluctantly received the contents of your heart,
Where the contents of its own would now be a part
Of a shrouded fair trade that I don't think you intended to make.
Say that it's only a day where you couldn't find your place.
So can you feel it
As the air makes its home in the tears in our wings?
We slide dull knives over brick walls
Hardly cutting anything.
We never searched for our saviors,
But we look harder these days.
We all just work for our masters
We never thought we'd create.
But you win.
I'm as guilty as them.
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