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One move to the right
The hands of the old clock ticked...
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War is a commodity, by which we live
A product we all produce and sell...
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I lost a friend a week or so ago
To a sensless act of unwanted violence...
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Although we are far
thoughts of you like stars...
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Looking out across
these gently rolling hills...
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Apple blossoms burst
trees carry beautiful weight...
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A Boy Called Baby Squirrel
I watched from the corner of my eye...
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(I dream, sir, of the routes of my childhood
of braiding my hair...
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Tongue of icicles
fondles quivering waters...
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Half drunk sullen moon
laden with nightly drama...
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I lace up my chucks and I throw on a scarf,
Who knew these cuts would leave more than just...
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The violin strings, the poet's ink
Deep inside the winter of discontent...