A blessed hand to cover the cursed mouth born of faith when tiptoeing around flights of fancy informs sonic acrobatics. An esoteric word for what never held true; a complicated rite forcing an answer through. These are prayers for a sense left for dead or an elegy on the end of a life I once led. Learning that we inhabit a bedtime story, prophets whisper to fools. Footbound and adrift and losing a game for which we've written the rules. (Rip my heart to pieces.) And it's an ironic twist of fate, (scartter them to the wind.) this bit of hypocritical fare, (rip my heart to pieces.) when we're taught to look passed the suitable answers, (scatter them to the wind.) watch them disolve and not even care.