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Thorn Farmer
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First ring I ever drew still hurts the last thing I ever drew Telling myself just one more year until the last shovel of dirt Spending forever doting on each circle of graphite Each fresh ring a hoop that marks my not passing on Safe places are vaccuums, filling with sadness, without spark Plucked out of a patch of sun, I tried to refill you Wrapped in burlap My first born dead How many children do I have to bury before I am allowed to end Why doesn't the ghost speak, instead stare accusing
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