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One cannot travel through life devoid of scars.
Each nightly ritual reminds of stories past as you
Sluice away at the open wounds of the day.
I trace a silver line on the curve of my foot,
Conjuring up memories of hurried feet along train tracks,
The shortcut to home. Furtively listening for the train whistle
That would squeal on us, my brother and I hastened home.
In my haste, I stumbled on a broken beer bottle, flung negligently.
The gash was deep, he tore his shirt in strips and bound me safe.
I hobbled home. We laughed. My brother gave me the shirt off his back.
I retrace the silver line fondly.
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Hard times
We grow and let go
Of all the things, we think we know
We hold tight, to the things that are right
That keeps us from pacing long into the night
Pining for the time when the sun shone bright
And in the dawn’s ethereal glow
The demons we wrestle fading slowly from sight
Faith finds us, reminds us that day follows night.
Good times
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Like this:
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Hard times
We grow and let go
Of all the things, we think we know
We hold tight, to the things that are right
That keeps us from pacing long into the night
Pining for the time when the sun shone bright
And in the dawn’s ethereal glow
The demons we wrestle fading slowly from sight
Faith finds us, reminds us that day follows night.
Good times
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