There’s As Late Of A Chance That To You I Guess, Time Is On It’s Way

There’s a strange silence, a loss of hope when in between words
As if paragraphs matter, or whether or not we exist
Late night proposals of sound lost to those in the woods
Of proposals of nights leaving us behind late

A whispering could be heard, most of which at extreme sound
Chance that I would have to hear what she said as I left the ground,
That as I would have loved to stay, mattered
To her, I never had a say

You could say that what I saw; I could say I called it fire
I never lost sound, in saying that it’s you that I admire,
Guess, guessing is past the wheel you came to steer
Time to let go and embrace all that you came to fear

Is the silence lost up your hope between trees?
On solid ground, you never quite weighed out the mass you created
It’s paragraphs about how real you’ve ever been
Way more fake now then all of the proposals of trust, that you could ever trust men

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