Fields of Grass
This place is my woren glove
torn to my fit
stained to my liking
fire, bleeding into my palms
numbers that crawl through my mind
as I see to hold...
Fields of grass that grow to weeds
fields of dreams that turn to dust
fields of nightmares that come true
fields of flowers that turn to graves
fields of grass that grow for fire...
This palace I have formed in this place
now lays to sleep
from pill to pill
we can see the past from the future
now we save ourselfs
from the flowing rivers
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