The field at the farm, a chorus of ducks.
The beginning to an end, I trust.
Thick, hardened, mantles, loosing their thrust.
Pulling back the pages, a winter’s scene beginning to rust.
Wane
The field at the farm, a chorus of ducks.
The beginning to an end, I trust.
Thick, hardened, mantles, loosing their thrust.
Pulling back the pages, a winter’s scene beginning to rust.
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You deserved to feel love that isn't spelled backwards
