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I cried in a museum before I talked to you. 
I thought I had lost my faith, my faith in art, my faith in anything rather.
But it came back with the most synthesized beat. 
It was more of a surprise this time, and when my heart throbbed, it throbbed just for you.

I can't be sure if it's the air circulating through the vents, or the smell of old paintings that holds me in this place.
I thought it was over, but it's a feeling we may otherwise not know.
Art is more than that, and when the sun rises atop your back, you listen as I swear to you,
'Do you know I wear this heart around my neck for you?'

It's the way you see 1995 that speaks volumes to me.
'The rest of this place is nothing more than a blown out bunker.'
Hold onto the darkness in there, hold onto the feeling with your fist in the air.

Remember as you whisper to me, soflty, over the crowd,
It's you who brings me back, and it's true when you say it that way.
Girls standing tall in Sarajevo, walls thick with supports.

'Hold onto your grey square dear friend.  Only you see how that marble sparkles from three inches away.

Circle your cloth toward the center of the earth.  Speak to the core in there. 
Push through these tired treads, we've all missed worshipping so much.'



Padre Island
November 2014