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Boy Who Cried Wolf

He cannot breathe
here
the streets are too cold.

In time,
the sum of all his lies
still echo

until even I
don’t believe him any more.

The answers are there,
hidden in a lifetime
of passed mistakes;
past predictions.

In the not too distant future
black hair, brown eyes,
the gypsy will return;
I’ll listen to him play
his blue guitar
(and pretend this time he’ll stay
as he’s promised before)

while rain falls
on someone else’s roof.

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