If I could paint a picture
because beauty is everywhere
from the highest falls
to the mist in the air
And the things I let drag me down
drift and shift like the fog
If I only could hold steady
pursue fidelity like analog
I'll lose the thread again
distracted by society static
and I'll drag out of that again
as long as I have a few bats left in my attic
Thinking about the ones past
the ones with so much left
I guess the losing is the warp
the beauty is the weft
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