Will we make it to the promised land
by a lake so still it soaks our souls,
in a forest of sweet smelling pine
dampened only by our woes
My very own wooden cabin
will house all the lessons
of forgetting your misty eyes
as the inner noise deafens
The wind blows on my deformed face
like supple breaths of relief
A red boat sets sail
greeted by our inevitable wreath
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