Saint John’s

.

It’s on the tip of my tongue,

It’s at the edge of my breath,

It is the truth to my lie,

The feeling I keep in check;

Breathing cool on my neck,

In the corner of my eye,

Oh it is my drug, my meth,

I wonder, “what if I sung?”;

It is true, I am still young,

Barely know alpha from beth,

But I feel it in the sky :

Strange, irresistible beck,

I can barely keep in check

Screaming at me to just try

But I fear this form of death,

The bells have yet to be wrung.

.

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