I can't see
The insides of my eyelids have been my solace
All I know is the sycamore I lay under
I lay on my back in hopes that my eyes will  miraculously open to the crisp sky
The sycamore rots
At least I think its a sycamore
It has an indistinguishable tang of cinnamon that cooks off the bark and hangs in the hot air in summer
and a desperate perfume of musk from the roots lingers in the ...

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