I plead these rhymes in front of the eyes of God:
forgive us dirt, this shallow matter
forgive us Lord, we didn't know better
swinging in the rhytm of a young heart
thus painting our living as pervert art.
life wasn't opened book lying on the shelf
who wants to dictate flowers how to grow ?
the process of growth is grieving itself:
love and the pain in vague, sobbering glow.
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