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How We Move

August 30, 2011
tags:

To what do I owe

The most dark of the day?

To whom do I blame

For the grayest of gray?

But really, I mean,

Why pull at the strings

Keeping me alive?

 

 

The swaying between trees

And the dance of the keys

Makes for sleeping as a pasttime.

And the pulse felt within

Goes much deeper than skin,

Ruling movements without any mercy.

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