the seagulls only thirst for knives
all runs rampant and the things we believe become nothing more than makeshift atrocities stamped with our own seal of approval. we look at them - these people, these scoundrels - and wonder how they took our lives and contorted them into plasticine replicas of everything we didn't want to achieve. and we sit and ponder how the simple sound of rain bears a weight on our hearts. how the smallest detail in our morning can unravel and break us apart. so we look to our sandboxes, where we fought for our castles and kingdoms. where we reigned as kings and queens. we look to our sandboxes and breath heavy sighs.
we want our thrones back.
