| My bed hasn’t seen me since the young summer sun
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| Watched our cruel blood drive ahead of us
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| With its hold on our wrists, cold steel and clenched
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| Two years of warm moons behind us
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| And I’ve made deep prints in the grey silt
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| Standing south of the cold stream, bleeding wild
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| Like the lonely weathered street that should have taken me
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| I won’t believe I’ve slept
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| Because the bed I’ve kept is that driven pavement
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| Droning lullabies that can’t bring me back
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| And each solstice’s sun another red reminder
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| Of the youth we should have had
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| But gave away for the pain and the struggle of finding it on our own
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| And maybe the streets aren’t paved anymore
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| With the dying days of our childhood
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| I’ll waste the sunlight tracing this pavement
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| For an answer, for some feeling I almost knew
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| But there’s no answer from the braille of worn asphalt
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| There’s no response from the lines where our bones broke
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| With my ear to the floor, I’ll listen for a heartbeat
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| But the only sound is wheels spinning free
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| Overturned, eyes closed, stained red
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| Our home is dead |