StoriesI like to feel the hustle and bustle of the beating heart of a cityor a schoolor even just the convenience storewhere the lifeblood is the people who come and goAnd I see these people and think to myselfthat each unique faceeach person who nods to mewho sighs into their phoneThe people who purchase their groceries in front of meand hold up the line while my dad or granny or god-sister silently cursebecause they're just so slowThe man picks up a paper from a newsstandor the woman who pushes me out of the way because she just has to be somewhereI think to myselfthey each have a lifetheir own storiesand fearsa
BloomOne day - when the Choriopsis no longer bloomsI will try, no longer, to love you.But wait! This is Tennessee, and it is perennialIt may die back, but it is forever,And that is how long I will love you.
GhostsThey visit, sometimes, in the nightThey wander in from the train station's lightThe nine ghosts whom we still inviteWho come from the desert of the deadWhere the wind carries gunpowder and the land carries leadSolid specters, tough and wornWhose clothes are sometimes burnt and tornFrom the land that is dark where the birds are forlornBut they still smile and they'll sometimes talk'Till the early hours of the clockAn endless raging war, they sayBrought them here, so far awayFrom the places that they used to stayTo fight in the name of a meaningless battleFor bombs to be tossed and for bullets to rattleThey speak of a place where looks deceiveWhere the dead come back and are never grievedWhere the object is to kill and thieveAnd no matter how much or how long they fightThere'll never be a last goodnightThere'll always be more bait to biteAnd the Voice will never let them leaveThey visit, sometimes, in the nightThey wander into Teufort's lightThe nine ghosts whom w
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This, Good Madam, Is the best pony drawing I seen.