| He made the world a grassy road before our bare, wandering feet,
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| and crushed the stones into the softest sand between our toes,
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| but we’re wondering where to sleep,
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| clever words on pages turn to fragments;
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| Circles, points and lines, and cover them like carpets, with graceful,
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| meaningless ornamental designs come quick,
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| you light that knows no evening
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| Come, alone to the alone!
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| There are a thousand sanities worth leaving to take your madness home,
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| you dance inside my chest where no on sees you,
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| but sometimes I see you rejoice, the cleansing of my lips
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| Rejoice, salvation of my soul!
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| But I still have a thousand half-loves
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| (Oh my God! I want to shoot myself just thinking about it)
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| And you think I don’t mean what I say?
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| I mean every word I say.
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| I threw a stone at the reflection of my image in the water,
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| and it altogether disapperared.
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| I burst, it shattered me like a bullet through a bottle,
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| and I’m expected to believe that any of this is real. |