Clear cut caught and staged like the sea alone, I never longed to be.
But wish me away, and wander I will under downy firs
and cherry pines counting down the days and dizzy from the air
wafting off your lips.
There is no choice in time,
the aging hour.
Pages shall turn and grapes will sour.
Find me begotten with bone, and
unable to stomach another wilting flower.
Do you know the prophecy? It seems if not, than just: She who ponders is never left alone.
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