Sleight of hand

Thwarted promises and ideals scattered across the promenade like bones from the depths of the ocean floor.
Each word whispered has a secret friend, in league with the devil that is idleness, come to prey on the souls of the weak.
How many verses of rhetoric are spewed to appease the very nature of why and reasons for doing?
For what cause do these winged demons flit from line to line?
You tell me.
Is it the breadths of comfort that stream the cobble flagged streets or just the dreary nature of our compass?
All these landmarks are beginning to look the same and I miss the place I felt at home, but what of rolling pine forests and tipi poles tickles my skin?
For that, the answer is as plain and as far away as it ever was, partially because there is no answer.
 A man is as much as his mind lets him, conquer that and you are limited by nothing but your own sleight of hand.
These streets will always hold hidden treasures though, until the sea covers them in marble and pearls.
Until then my friends, dream on.

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