These are all my sad little suspects. Armor-plated suits and ties--Daddy just won't say goodbye. Each word is a bullet but we fire at the same time. We don't know who's ultimately responsible. The fatal, final bullet, pierces your tender throat. There's no one to blame except everyone--Sad, sad, little suspects. And they say words can never hurt you, yet no tourniquet can spare you. God is great but will he listen?
27 October 2009
Cult of Personality
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