| caught when i was still a child
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| by a terrible vision of my Christ
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| and caught in the throat by your signs and tears and goodbyes
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| i picked me up and walked too far
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| with thought of no return
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| and not to see your face again and drowning all my hopes
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| and wishing no longer upon stars
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| believing
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| no longer in moonlight
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| or other dreams or other fields
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| upon all of which we so beautifully play
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| i saw a waste of all
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| and so i put away
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| all talk of death’s heads
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| and a little glimpse is a bloodblossomed force
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| and all talk of apocalypse
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| Apocraphon and Apollyon
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| Abaddon
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| all abandoned
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| then i saw in myself the bowl and a gun
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| and the glory that was to come |