A rising tide spent drowning in days lost to one heart's final lament. Thrown off like grins known only to the dead. Plastered behind scarlet eyes, stinking of tomorrow. I say that once a letter is written- it's not so easily sent. Like trying to find 2 of 3, but settling for one of me instead. It's a hard faith to follow: the constant give without the take; after the scraping through it's one less heart to break. A head above water for the eyes held under a lasting plea for the lost mind torn asunder. Nothing but fair trades and farewells, when the present tense reveals a sixth sense, when you'd die for a word or one less empty shell.