There are keys to all doors,
means to open all ways:
There is a kind of seeing
That is suspension of believing.
The way she looked at me
Innocence lost in a story,
Left me tongue dried, trying
To find words to explain.
But she had asked,
And I have given:
No truth can be recalled.
So Santa Claus was dead
And I left with naught to mend
The wound inside her heart.
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