| In this race there’s no keeping pace
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| Bare foot under naked skies
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| Masks unveil and so does clouds
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| Remark, sun stands high
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| The price of pursuit will cost your feet
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever climb high enough
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever run fast enough
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| Point a finger down righteousness' path
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| They will follow you and lift you up
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| You shall never walk again
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| Exposure lies in the eye of the beholder
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| Exposure lies in the eye of the beholder
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| We see what we’re presented with
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| But are you willing to look a little further?
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever climb high enough
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever run fast enough
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever climb high enough
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| You won’t ever run fast enough
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| We’re closing in, we’re climbing higher and higher
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| We’re closing in, we’re running faster and faster
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| We’re closing in, we’re climbing higher and higher
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| Close enough isn’t closing in
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| We’re closing in, we’re running faster and faster
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| Confine these treacherous undoings. |
| We choose what we’re given. |
| And I live,
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| so I’ll live in these brief unmeasurable intervals called moments.
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| But the only thing I get to keep are the sticks and stones. |
| Just like memories,
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| these will break and crumble in to scraps and splinters in the palms of my
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| hands. |
| When the hourglass has been crushed I am just a man pouring my own sand
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| in the pools I created. |
| So I look up, staring wide then sealing my eye lids
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| tight, crossing fingers over hands hearing myself screaming to this man on the
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| moon. |
| It’s too loud, can he even hear my cries? |
| I dream of spinning wheels
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| marking the late canopies when they should drive me home. |
| Don’t fly away again
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| little mocking bird, you should sing for me. |
| It’s been so long since I heard
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| the melody of a thousand running springs. |
| Now the reminiscence just reminds me
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| of myself. |
| Why would I need to tell myself about how I never learned to fly
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| with my own arms, and how can anyone cloud state even listen if I couldn’t.
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| My feet are soar from all this dancing with an axe in my arm, it never tasted
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| wood and I can never really build a ladder tall enough. |
| I can climb these walls
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| around me and I can outrun my past but only for so long, until there are no
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| winds to catch the sails that I’ve sown and my lungs have dried out from all
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| the anger I’ve burnt. |
| I’ll be staring wide at the velvet canopy,
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| then closing my eyes, crossing fingers over hands hearing myself whispering
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| words of hope and humility to a wind that I believe will carry my prayers to
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| one who listens |