We talk of miracles. Of undelivered letters written years ago. Of many things that are dear to me. The mighty happenings.
I can only be your canvas. You were golden light reflected all around us.
But i'm exhausted. I'm exhausted.
There's never been a cloud in the sky for you.
Without this what will i do?
And i know. Soon, you'll go.
And i'll pass you, earth or ash.
I asked to hear of your garden. To take each of my limbs and dream of happen.
Thought i can go again, till i can talk and bend and flower anew.
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