MOS: Fornjot

Moving backwards.
Lost among the cowardice.
Each sweater a layer of smiles.
What can hold or keep,
the belonging of belief?

How should I be phrased?
Sullen and seek, awaiting tears
on a metal heart.

Let all be over taken
with the salt of the matter,
bitter orange grit in the fingers.

Let me fall.
Let me fall.

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