| Bones are everywhere, aren’t they? |
| Our families spring from their graves.
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| Their Sunday Best don’t fit them bones the same way and wine is seeping from
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| The barrel staves… again
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| I’m in your tea room toasting lives unchanged (while music’s playing by the
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| garden’s edge). |
| Outside rusted joints prove souls asleep can flowers blooms
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| from this vintage? |
| Relative Skeletons nervously shuffle, we glance around
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| community of our own. |
| Quiet valley drips with hints of laughter. |
| Mr.
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| Jefferson, can we slip these bones?
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| And bones are everywhere, aren’t they? |
| What do you think they’d see through
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| those trees? |
| 'Resurrected Spirits Dancing,' you don’t say?! |
| (The minstrel’s new
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| arrangement of History)
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| We danced and drank the sun! |
| It over flowed and washed the past away. |
| We roamed!
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| Echo! |
| Laughter! |
| Spirits danced a jig around their graves…
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| …Then came the rain
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| A garden craves a balance of both (I guess so)
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| From the garden, they’re all running from the garden, we’re all looking for the
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| garden. |
| So much to maintain
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| Bones are everywhere aren’t they? |
| Ghosty spirits dash right past me.
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| Finding hidden spaces, favored places. |
| Families disperse to there graves
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| Bones are here to stay aren’t they? |
| We cultivate the bones that we’re of.
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| Sir, if you caught me drunk on wisdom, would you say I’ve had enough? |