I extended my hand heavenward, foolishly expecting the love that was promised me,
but not everyone is a saint.
His owl eyes attack us. We can only breathe behind this charred veil,
counting the stars that are, in essence, dust at its most divine,
waiting in the shade of Our Lord who always, always watches us.
Once upon a time, twelve feathers were left to the Earth,
and, like the clear, calling voice of a jay, the truth was broadcast across every place,
except maybe heaven,
because the angels seem to have forgotten the act of honesty.
I have tried to make truces with him, but it's too late;
he already takes us for granted.
To be a saint is an awful burden to bear.
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