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My life- everything i have done- is becoming debris.
Fine, then.
I will sing in the wreckage
living down here in this chasm
high hopes, no one has them
erosion has us sinking deeper
and these rock walls just get steeper

at the bottom of this rocky gulch
in dryest hopes, we endulge
living in this deep ravine
we are somewhere in between
Against the night sky
The trees are but silhouettes
I can imagine those as regrets
Unavoidable
But gorgeous in a way
Like the way your skin glistens
On a rainy day

Like the way your eyes glisten
On a moody day
Smoking is terrible for you - we all know that,
But there's nothing quite as **** as a cigarette
With its wafts of smoke curving sensuously up
Like a winding staircase to heaven.

Maybe it's that, that Bacall and Bogie dance
Of noir fog above a lit cigarette,
Or it could be the intimate way
The word "young" is carved out on your slab,

Or the intimate way that the smell lingers
On the clothes of loved ones long after
You're dead and buried.
Nothing makes a guy harder than rigour mortis.
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