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try to rest
Those sparse promises are put to bed
Yet they ripen like a lie
The lead County Kingdom
is made from last years chancers
Darkened coaches reach their destination
Our smokey trails
are honed like marbled mantles
Predictable success are nothing
compared to the chirping of the birds
Call Summer a lie
Those bright mornings
folds its wings and flies
I cannot sleep
Copyright ©
Antony Glaser
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