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Cymbals Eat Guitars - Share |
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If I should return like I once did |
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Animals will mark me with brown infant eyes |
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The same eyes whose lids I kissed the high grass in which they sit |
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Is shoulder length and hanging on your forehead |
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A week is four years in ancient hive minds |
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And soon those eyes begin to well up |
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Your shallow grave concealed by fragrant leaf piles |
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Black glistening bird eyes averted |
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