And when your golden curls have turned to red,
when your eyes have lost all their light find strength in my life.
Enough white to kindle a massacre of poems.
At least tremble enough that I may flame in your green array,
all these years, the battle of each grievous day.
Perhaps then those beautiful tears will overcome...
I almost wrecked this morning in about the same place my mother called me
the day she found out,
I hydroplaned going about 42 miles per hour.
I wasn't scared or anything it was very strange.
I had a moment in...
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