| To you, my love
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| I leave the second best beds
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| The worlds dragged up dregs and drowned regrets
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| Lakes that have bled their dappled beauty are long dead and dread
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| So that every time you place a foot
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| The thought that the ground could come loose
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| Parades through your head
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| I’ll leave your lungs and loves unfed
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| Your green spaces stained red
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| I’ll leave
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| Taking with me all I’ve found and instead
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| You can have whatever’s left
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| To you I hand down a horizon
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| Marked by my mistakes
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| Fires, fakes
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| Days comprising a season-less haze
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| And a lifetime’s fight for intangible change
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| A place void of brightness
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| Not the world I knew
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| But a charcoal likeness
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| And a tightness in your frail chest
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| So that, at best?
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| You’ll get to see your twenties through
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| And I would give you
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| The sky if I could
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| But it’s too scored and scorched from long haul holidays
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| So for my youngest i leave an apology
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| That you will never let the citrus lick of dew stain your fingers
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| Nor the smell that lingers after the rain
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| Frame your autumn days
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| I’m sorry
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| For the still nights
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| When you won’t be looking up at stars
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| Charting those stories that should have been ours;
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| The powerless pyre in the pit of your being
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| For bequeathing that feeling
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| I can only apologise
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| Cos i chose to turn the other cheek
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| Turn my back
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| Keep my eyes firmly closed…
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| As if I didn’t know
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| That this world is not a temporary home
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| It’s not on loan
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| It’s not due back as soon as I am gone
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| We might just be passing through
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| What are we passing on? |