the flower is dying
I can't save it
the lark no longer flying
I can't fix it
I must keep going
they would want it
the flower and lark are fleeing
give me strength with it
my grandmother recently died and I wrote this when she was terminally ill. I used to say that when it rained the angels were crying for a lost soul. I will never say that again. it rained the day my grandma died
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