my wallet is a graveyard of photos and trinkets tattered stories untold, my heart is a memory cocooned in a womb of places that are

never more. and only this feeling is recognised as all the rest is swept under the door there was a weeping girl entangled who will try to deter from indulging in this no more for my floor is moped and the slates are drying im a baby bird falling from the nest again crumbled loveletters

and time on my battlefront cradeling the love of a friend im painting faces at the carnival as mines imaculatly misleading composure will make itself real it's harder than i'll allow recognition all is ask is the beauty not to feel april

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