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River Whyless
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Pigeon Feathers
I once dreamed I was a poet, But I was bound to a single page. You're not just a pen and a piece of paper, You're a dog-eared book grown old with age.
I've got a friend with a golden table, And he dines with the best of men. He'd buy you that silver mirror, If you could see that it's only sand.
I believe that I'm a writer, But I am bound to a single page. Sipping coffee at the edge of nightfall, Kissing you under summer rain.
But you feed the fire when you close the door…
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