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i would draw pictures in the sand
to know that art is ethereal
if i were on a beach
the sun blinks
rapidly
(epilepsy)
through the trunks of the oak
trees
and disappears behind hills
i would climb one of these fresh green hills to
find a flower for you
if it didn't make my eyes itch like a son of a bitch
this passes slowly
effortlessly
sitting in these tin
innards
my mind running over the hills
i scowl at the back of the bus seat
like it'll make a difference
but it doesn't
and the land levels
and cows turn grass into shit
and live to die