You will leave me, I know. You will
Go to every extent to deceive me in my knowledge
Of confusion.
You will rip me up, I know. You will
Let me rot in sweltering sunshine of ignorance and
Dismiss the vision.
And you will keep my stench away, you will
By planting a hundred thousand wild roses in
Your garden.
The thorns to doubly assure I lacerate,
I should, if I ever crawl back
Re-stitched.
Re-stitched.
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