I take in the scent of the paper,
my tears make a wave.
I can still smell the tree it grew from,
the Earth that built its frame.
For me, it wept and died,
and now bares all the weight,
of the ink from my pen and the blood from my heart,
and the heavy words that whisper his name.
my tears make a wave.
I can still smell the tree it grew from,
the Earth that built its frame.
For me, it wept and died,
and now bares all the weight,
of the ink from my pen and the blood from my heart,
and the heavy words that whisper his name.
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