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Cold feet, cold floors - 
creep and crack around closed doors - 
behind which lie our dreams divine - 
if we would only take the time - 
to see the line - 
that which we stand in so fine - 
we would realize the chime - 
of Nature's cry, 
"Are you alive?" 
We walk along a life made of eggshells - 
rarely growing wings to fly - 
above those doors which stand so high.

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