If we walked through fields of goldenrod and
wandered through groves of birch and aspen and
stepped across the silvered waters and
if you picked me wildflowers —
You could take me home and
lay me down and
give me what you’ve got
and I could play my part
and you could play the fool.
You could fill the silence in my heart
and the vacant places in my soul with
empty words and promises, those
cheapest of things.
But in the end if we lay
beneath the moonlight, silvered gray,
if you touched the emptiness and
pushed beyond the pale and
looked into my eyes and
saw the coldness there,
you’d realize and
be my fool no longer.
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