Dynamite thunder breaks apart the concrete.

A giant fan rearranges my heart into pieces of grass on the wooden-brown floor.

What shattered tears may fall along the way as

I come to stay and never play.

Is it good to cry, to feel sorrow for what I’ve done,

Or is it evil? No, he hasn’t won.

Not yet anyway, and he never will

For the Highest of Kings went upon that hill.

From thence he shall come again

To take away my sin.

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