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You’re a mirage, my love. I can’t tell you and the sky apart. Is this some trick of the light? The eyes, mind, or heart? Or are you a mural, my love? A work of ART. A stepping stone, my love? My end and my start.
You’re a soft bed of grass, Sans the bugs, briers, and burrs That have plagued me before. You are secluded from the cityscape, But not lacking in excitement. In solitude someplace,
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