| Reality rose like the sun, and still I slept through it:
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| «I can always witness it another morning…»
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| The thoughts like these are cemented in procrastination
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| Now this part of 'she' is liquid form somewhere on the floor
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| As a self-defiant need for a cure
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| Diagnosed to emerge and roam away
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| From roads as thick as foam
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| You wish to burn the candles that quietly service the arm
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| Another day with the shades pulled down
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| Until the swallow returns her to sleep
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| A father knocks on the silent door
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| While this part of 'she' has become an inferno shame
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| Louder than we expect from such silent candles
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| Not so secret anymore
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| Now the eyes of my eyes have opened
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| Now the eyes of my ears cling dear
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| Never let the swallow return you back to sleep
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| The smell of wounds have left you bug-bitten here
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| And again I know reality shall rise tomorrow
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| This time I hope to be awake
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| For I cannot postpone another morning
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| Never let the swallow return you to sleep |