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Sorrow,
I’ll meet you tomorrow...
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The morning sighs in softest hue—
the sky has saved its gold for you...
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How lonely is the flame
that burns for its own fire...
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Up in the morning, before crack of dawn.
Limbering up on, next doors front lawn...
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Be first in plans of a wiseman, though last in...
Don't take crook'd paths that stand before you...
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What was I made for?
I was made to be God's poet...
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I remember you
in the soft melt of ice cream...
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"I gathered nothing," you declare,
Yet gathered my trust, beyond compare...
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I'm here,
Or something near...
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carrying the knife in my trembling hands.
wondering where to jab it in between my glands...
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every night I wield the knife.
every night it takes a life...
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Everything is mounting.
Everything is rising...