FALSETTO
(eden)
(eden)
This path somehow meanders,
through the garden wherein
I've carried your things a million
years on. Tarry no more. This
bell is ringing again, but there is
no matter between us more
pressing then heart. So I relax,
knowing full well that things
will always be okay. Here
on this mountaintop, all
streams can only run
downward, to finer
glens, and deeper
greens.
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