The trees spilled
over the ledge of night
Wakening my memories
and senseless visions
Of who do I know?
Of who do I love?
I love nothing but
my own pleasure
Slowly eased to the
ground from so high above
Above the trees and the
night and the stars
And down upon this
rope-swing to the grassy green and yellow
Where I will lay in
the hands of death
On the world’s cold
and callous shoulder
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