You forget, boy, the scars make it feel like perfect skin.
And when words are spoken that you don't hear
Don't you fear someone else has already been let in?
Trees once had branches as yours as do mine,
But when they've been cut, do you still not feel them?
Little hairs stand up in the wind,
There are whispers to which they listen
And vines entwine from the roots keeping tabs,
Icy rivers in your skin reach the limb's running hand.
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