Our souls will not find each other, if we skip the steps that lead us from these chains. Fighting from these fits of submission, grounded in a holstered key hole of garbage. Skimmed just past the brothel, forbearing for a soul wind in the brink of desolation. You see these kinships as numbers, they are labeled instructively and passively inquired. The words on a page, found significance in the annual words pressed on the page. You lash your twin finger tips, the blood seeps as it pumps from your veins. Your purpose was granted by these intense Warlords. The serpents filled with angst, they search the grounds for your trembling exposed neck wound. These days we search for simple things, for us to cope with an every present lack of posture.