| | It shall not be a
Pint of cold whiskey that
Brushes you down against
My crown of layered
Words of
Crawling like your broken frowns upon
My less devoured days
Below the heavy sky,
The clouds we write on
Through,
Our sighs
and
Cushioned lights and
Rivers there
And I fare grandly with my
Reasons there
For bringing you down
To broken sweat
(And broken frowns)
Upon my face
And I leave no trace
Of snow for you
To shiver in.
|
| | Posted 12/2/2008 7:59 AM - 285 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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