East Of The Wall
the methuselah tree
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Thereâs more than wind through here. Itâs all mid-stream. Maybe once Iâd kept abreast of movement until my nerves ached and dilated in the strain. So now Iâve earned my salt.
Drink another drink that heavy roots wonât hold. Creak, only to branch again, but scorn the take. This blighted a yolk only turns. Stay hidden beneath the earth. In turn, Iâve plowed my salt. Iâve earned my salt.