A(X)iom

Even sweet words can be sharp,

Leaping from the many lips we can no longer differentiate,

Flaying the flesh and seeping into what lies beneath,

But not to worry, that skin never felt like home,

So, we peel it back in search of some charnel relic,

The ossified remains of promises made to ourselves,

The corpses of the Next times and Never agains,

Silenced forever by that alluring voice:

Those voices, now one and like heroin,

That carried the soul away euphoric,

Leading us to that familiar precipice,

Our heels rocking on its edge, 

The rocks beneath us howling in hunger,

As a whisper, like a breath, sends us reeling,

Plummeting toward the usual result,

Because the rocks were always the solution,

And we were the variable that failed to change.

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