8 long years down the drain
And countless others since I last saw your smile.
Years without color. White and black.
Drained of all that should have been.
Could be but never was.
Years with the occasional dream
Punctuated by a man I barely recognize.
When did you grow so tall, you vagabond?
Sometimes you're happy and my heart is raw,
And I convince myself that you escaped. You're free.
Sometimes you're broken and deal must be made.
What can I sell? What can I sacrifice
To promise you the perfect afterlife?
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