I was to

I was to sell my soul

And gather every penny intact

Of what I once perceived irredeemable

Was now in sale for the meek and mighty alike


I was to bow down to the world’s whim

As fickle and unforgiving it may seem

Disguised as a tempestuous mistress of mine

Demanding every ounce of passion

Which she frankly did not deserve


I was to. Yes, I was to.

But that little faultless voice

Buried under the heap of insurmountable silence

The silence and numbness which only comes out of a liar’s conscience

Interfered and interfered good


Now neither exists the fruit of the whim that was promised nor the innocence, the juice of what was once naïve and raw.

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