Poetry's no good
When the landscape writes its own
Lines against the sky
When the landscape writes its own
Lines against the sky
Mere colludes with
Fells, sun, and horizon to
Scour me with beauty
Fells, sun, and horizon to
Scour me with beauty
I'm eyes without mouth,
Ears without fingers, and a
Soul with no outlet.
Ears without fingers, and a
Soul with no outlet.
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