by Sufjan Simone

Created on: April 05, 2009   Last Updated: June 11, 2009

Gulls scythe the skies with their wings and cries
Mad from endless journeys on ceaseless seas.

Wind whips sand against my face, my hands.
Intent on touching waters cold, I go alone, bold.

Not everyone is born with a silver spoon.
And this is what remains of my numbered days.

Bad weather, landscape so lonely, but I do not buckle that easy.
I've lived through rougher, will cut through more.

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