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Nov 2017
The greatest memory of then was when upon the twisted edge. and sun receding in the West with reverie and joy was met. The fangled hand the broadened shoulder, only stars were to devour night the light was doubled dull. Depending on the eye you see. The ocean at my back, the desert and the swamp and all the history of man like walking in the rain. Fickle fallowed weeds in snow soon. November will be gone, but you and I will carry on; battered and beaten forgotten like the memories of sullen stained skies, banners of our innocence. Those deeper canyons beyond reach and somewhere, somehow, the path that was laid so long ago in this soft sand of mine. The river that goes forth
Andrew
Written by
Andrew
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