Suspect

I number all the misconceived and callous ways of ones who never know the way it hurts to be a different day in which we fall and lose some grace and choose our weight in tales of loving long and low in rememberance of the undertow that pulls our body close to gods who look upon the waves and nod so knowingly that one must guess that deep inside they do not bless as much as they would think they could if they were not so understood by none who talk of they and them but look instead to clues and signs and truths and lies and dealings fair and contracts which dare to tell the undersigned to cut their hair in the face of what may be the last stand of reality which we have managed thus far to avoid in favor of our mirrored way.