Hurt

Likely sand again to whine

In grains what skin could fault to find

And pale in mornings wet but common

To take the screeching dew from soil

And mould into a new upbringing?

And find a person solemn singing?

Caress me with the foreign coils.

Pick and purpose from the bottom.

Grassy regions spread to nothing.

Do you love to paint the plum?

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