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His educated, condescending tone
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Morning sun came leaking through her blinds
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Frayed sleeves and faded color
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Cause your heart stopped beating
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That machete is coming down
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Swallowed words choking my heart
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Nothing but a distant melody
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pen beckoning me
whispering tempations
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beauty raining down
weeping willow laughing tears
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Snow is falling now
Softly on the hardened ground
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Though darkness surrounds you
light is near
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His baby soft skin
covered with sweat and dirt
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Pictures of Paris in Spring
Golden sunsets that wash away regrets
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Dying leaves crunch under the feet
of a soul seeking its' vessel
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A chipped porcelain baby face
just around the eyes
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The edges of leaves on Alabama autumn trees
are rainbowed and sunlit
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Four days of pondering
Wondering
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Our minds intertwine with a meaning we both stand on
and yet I can't figure out how you have me...
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There is a wild beaten path that I have / walked all the years of childhood / A path with ditch and humps of mud / with sky scraping trees that have / sunshine glittering foilage at top /
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I speak of moons and of a star that gazes endlessly but you deny their existence / Even though your eyes are as clear as a cloudless sky, my friend, you deny / I tell stories of crimson rosebuds and auburn autu
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Walking down streets filled with cafe aromas / and the occasional jingle of a misfortunate cup. / Guitars being played for an extra buck as / lovers wonder aimlessly through their alley of
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God oh high power / I give you praise / and Mercy you shower / Piano rains like dew / Voices accompany the sweetness / and notes dance across wind and you
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A foreign melody played in an absent mind / Competing with voices of angels / even yet a different kind / Time in its own world / and I in mine
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Three poets sat at a table in a darkend room With a rose centered in full bloom
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A mighty blue tosses the mere boat afar Worn and weathered with wind and sand bars
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Kindled was the fire of your soul Always trying to prove yourself to him
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I glance at that mountain view that casts the shadow on your resting place
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How many times he must have fallen to learn that flying was for the birds
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Pines are too tall to talk to Little blooms are too small to walk through
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I lay my head down to weep a prayer for the babe who died at her mothers hands and tremble at the claim of innocent blood. Devils and sunsh
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