From plinkometer: It wasn’t an end (they promised; they said). Dying to one’s self is distance we tread. Seven days with God: three in their deceit, one in painful wait, three from whence we came. Memory repeats: we promised to wait. It’s up to our fate. Memory is late.
The song is so-wrong; (strength lasting so long) it’s only our fault. We meant to hang on.
Unwise: drunken words. “Not tonight,” says I. We are the people. How long to arrive? In reduction, we may only improvise. Please excuse our most-fragile of minds. We do tend to slide.
