You go, morning after morning,
and you let go off
there used to be a father through the summer.
Life, however, seems to steal occasions,
where beyond the storm awaits the pre-inception.
And I remember the trains, cutting the city.
And I remember the 'yelling', unnecessary.
And the noise of the river under bridges.
Well, well, I must admit there's no place for you.
I used to argue "love is satisfaction".
Then insomnia came as Number one attraction.
No permission, too much from exhibition.
Now I inject my veins with some of that conviction.
And I remember the fire throwing up tears.
And I remember the morning storm providing.
And the sing of the river in my dreams.
Well, well.. I gotta face there's no clime for you.
Wait, wait, wait! I need to ensure there's no space for you.
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