The sun, a glass marble shines on innocense. I lie in short grass, looking into the future. The moon- a shiny biscut covers the clouds. And midnight bleeds into childhood dreams.. The watch hands turn into a foreign country. The war passed, I standown in rags. Looking thru the back glass of a Rambler Station Wagon. Childhood dreams escape as the dust. I smell Evening in Paris. The wrinkles in skin and shirt pressed by time. I lie in short grass, looking into the past.
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