I am furiously distracted by the tall,
wavering grasses of glass by the side of the road when I drive.
I am thoroughly enchanted
by the songs of little birds
that I cannot see between trees of steel
And the morning bore typically smells of my mother's lap.
The mists that no longer exist
shimmer with the daydream of my heroism,
And the romance in this tragedy makes me cry-
Whilst driving through ceramic parklands
no matter how hard I try, I am no longer afraid to die.
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