Once I fall down the staircase,
I look into the red horizon,
wishing only to grabhold of the railing that leads down the staircase of my mind.

The bright blue darkness that dwells in the ramshackle boxes that stored each of your seven sins, is the very menice that keeps you from a cold lonly death.

I wish only that with each clichè being in the night,
we can find ourselves one too many times restless,
and unknowing of the light that hides behind that shadows.

You believe that once you find it,
the world will slow down to your liking.
No such luck when you're blinded by the bright dull horizon,
unable to open your own box.

Once, twice, sixth time's the charm.
You release the sins that fall down the staircase and into the light behind the shadows.
They push you to the edge of your mind,
just as your bursting at the seems.


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