Cry yourself clean,
Dream yourself thin,
No chances regained,
Impure not insane,
Keeping it together,
But granted its not forever.
Spending years on your own,
In a house of closed doors,
An expression turned to stone,
For the aid of pastures pure.
A disgrace on tradition,
That heart discerned,
Those close decisions turned down,
Crept in the memories initially burnt.
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