Here I am again.
It's as if those hurtful words were never said
And again I am on a hurting knee with a
Tear-streaked face and weightless body-
It seems that mistakes are
Well acquainted with me.
If, for once, the smile on their faces
Has its roots in me,
My ancient sorrow and regret would be fed to sleep,
To sleep 'til the stars reveal their ancient number
And until then, my mistakes will exist
In a wake-less slumber.
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