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Apathy
Seconds away from the breathing
That I’ve come to set my rhythm to
Drunken paradise and poetic reverie
Burning holes in pockets, side winding bottle rockets
No one in the darkness
Just a pointed finger
And some apathy
Dripping nose no longer
But I am speeding just the same
Home grown and lower tone
Then anyone, then anything
I come to see you through the lights
Holding hands with dynamite
But in that picture
It’s not the image
That I’ve grown accustomed to