He could, his name had an ounce of cold
An antithesis of his words, that confluence
Mind and soul, joy and woe
Hidden in his works, I often seek
To find my will, to expunge my grief
Like a holy man's book
I hold, 'North of boston', and a boy's lament
Both guiding my now broken soul
Why would I have not lived back then
And heard your pen scribble, pages awash in ink
I would have held the drying vapour
Drenched my mind, crafted a world for myself
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