April 12, 2017
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I’ve got ash on my fingertips
And a warm whiskey tummyache
That‘s filled me up
Over the brim,
Magnifying all the steps I take

When I tip over;
Stumble onto shingles
You’re there
You’re there
You’re there

Soaking down mistakes and frowns
A sponge carried--
Fake words of reassurance;
A sword swung by the butterfly
Made of wet clay;

Soft like those daisy petals
I picked for you
When the ash would not stay away.

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