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Count the stars illuminating Vermont’s mystic forests On a late night in June Count the notes the chickadees exchange there Slightly out of tune Count the buttons you’ve collected in an old shoe box
not long ago you brushed me off without a care in the world about your words with thorns This deceiving hell burning to the touch UNBEARABLE suffering the Dreaded feeling
I’ll stay up hours to burn up the midnight fuel within my core and drown out the nerved voice inside that is never content. Like breaking a fever, I either run it rampant, or it will run me dry.