chronicle raze there is truth stitched into every lie a dead-sun day breathing slow and heavy gave its name before it was gone soft syllables lost to the din of crows so this is what fear tastes like something citrus kissed by cold lips it parts it hair with fingers wet from getting even with some red-faced nemesis the eyes are where the blood pools in lines too thin to make amends so pluck them out to make them kinder we're going where the money is 170426 what's it to you? who go blather from