| A lone voice crying in the wilderness
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| Make the straight way for the coming of the—
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| A dry throat stutters on an empty vision
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| Of milk and honey and desolate quiet
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| A dry mouth falters on the opening blast of a song to ruin
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| What it left behind
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| A bare sole longing for the feel of concrete
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| And a lone voice crying in the wilderness
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| I have these dreams when I’m feeling sick
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| Of unfinished patterns that I can’t collate at all
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| Of an inward breath in a land bereft of uncrippled figures
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| Of an exhalation
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| Of the himavant
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| Of a pulse |