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May 6
Scarce were no more words than weeds
In the garden of our perpetual being

Be they plucked or pulled
From tree born stars
Or shooting leaves across auburn eaves

How they fall so smoothly
And with such succinct being
That they couldn't be misconstrued as less
Or more so present in our mutual meaning

We are a garden of bygone dreams
By the wayside of being
Been
Running
Seanathon
Written by
Seanathon
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