Nothing left leaving, so dead leaving, left nothing

I remember a time when all I could think of was the things that my father hung from the christmas trees in the mornings, ornamental in design they were not ornaments of mine. And in the evenings when the smells of beauts and babes cried out and ate geese and pigs in grease I knew the feeling of tilling the soil of forgotten dreams that ne’er had caught my eye but had sensed the rhythm of the time and nothing left but leaving

I’m leaving not coming back to whatever it was I’d left before I don’t recall rightly what you thought of me but I recall all the names that you thought you’d call me, call me, call me, call me like an esper a great terrible whisper to weather weather whether it withered and died or not at all but I recall the time you came and said I’d wish you were never born so dead
so dead so dead so dead so dead

and nothing left but love is leaving so I’m going to finish my tears in my bed

nothing left
nothing left
nothing left but the laughs that I shed


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