Pulling back on the bow
hidden from the self-imposed
exile from the world,
ground to a halt
the pillar and his salt,
feet burning
from the endless day
at the wheel
Now comes a song
etched in the dirty air,
the invisible wall
The typo for the point
about many brushes with death,
the mistakes to attest,
a thousand victories
over the orb,
a thousand losses,
and so he's even:
One kiss to come
to forget about her flesh,
or I can lose myself
in the hourly astronomies,
I guess
That an arrow finds its aim
once or two or three times
in a man's life,
is the star we do annoint
in the refracted light
of second sight
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