I broke a lot of your goods
but we always got the woods.
Old people want no peace of grief.
No new people know how to turn a leaf.
Blotted out specters will kill our fames.
I want us to live longer without names.
Second stanzas chase the freer fires,
Shorter lives but deeper desires.
I avoid my good byes, wait again
for a better window, soak the rain
inside a small town library freak;
Time hopes we can break our
streak
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