A march of little feet across wet, muddy streets. Approaching the stage on which we'll dance. No stellar blinding light. No glory, no grace tonight. But no one is denied a second chance. No assumptions regarding class or taste. There is no hope to waste. The shit you shove down my throat is nowhere near as sour as the words I'll throw up and swallow back again. I'm divided between my resentment and an unquestioned faith. I had to build a barrier which I would readily destroy, if only you'd let go. If only I could let go. And no one kneeled in the temple that we had built as our home. We never felt any pressure at the bottom. And jostling somewhere among us there was a child with no name, hoping to one day vanish without a trace.
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