Art Is Your Sword

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A vibrating heart, beats in desire of a new life continued. Its ripped from the chest of thievery, falling onto the floor with a thud. Words are not a weapon, if not preficed for a special momentary lapse of candor. Found in the mere glances, and funny bursts of satirical ecstasy implosions. He bleeds for you on the pavement, his bright and shimmering grin overtakes your reservations of approach. The shock and awe of bombs in a fever pitched mockery, cannot save you from this viciousness. These dogs run to you, but still find themselves tripping in the mud of their own frail bones. I find myself in these moments, glances at the blackened sun rise, wondering if in time we will find tranquility. 

Contributor- Chris Ballenger

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