the goliath from the stranger by black cabinets

Is it the choir or a soloist? The converted, or Saint Boniface? Our fall from grace, return to bliss, or mere apples and oranges? Is it the sculptor or an untouched stone? The cruelest words, or stick to bone? The fear that I will die alone? Perhaps love is what we make it.

If this is not where you want to be, then maybe you should leave. You could forget me, and I would learn to forgive you. Or you can stay and we'll hate ourselves. You'll hide thoughts with someone else. I'll learn I can't trust myself, and I don't want to need you.

Is it a lion, witch or chest? A muscle pumping in an orifice? Is it just darkness, an abyss? delicate or far-fetched? Why shadow box - with blunt defence - omnipotence or science? Is love a David or Goliath? Cliché heroics, or a mislead giant?

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