chicory

Be They Wicked

Be they wicked, be they wild
Let the tempest thoughts lay claim
To any wretched doubt so bold or brash
Who would rattle a raised fist at your thunder.
Were you not of skin and bone but wood
There’d be smoke and ash to smother
Every last bright hope from the night
With all our dead dreams bundled
Gathered within as offered kindle
Where I would strike the match
And in your heart shall I burn.

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