Grafted it must be.
It was pale blue, tickled beat when I went to bed.
The sun now is by my window
And what that beats now, is red flame,
It thuds steel not tickles so, anymore and yes, it must be grafted.
I am lost because what's grafted beats truer than the one remembered.
I look at my fading face in the mirror and cry because
Whats grafted, is now shaming what is owned.
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