One day you may touch what's wrong.
I've wrung my dreams out in verse.
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.
Grip strip trip—I saw a soul inside a hearse
singing of seasons past, a silent song.
Sat up, sweat pouring, gasping for air.
Sylvia, many a night, I've touched what's wrong
but woke grasping only the silvery air.
I've wrung my dreams out in verse.
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.
Grip strip trip—I saw a soul inside a hearse
singing of seasons past, a silent song.
Sat up, sweat pouring, gasping for air.
Sylvia, many a night, I've touched what's wrong
but woke grasping only the silvery air.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I review comments (due to spam) before posting them. Be it relevant criticism or praise, I appreciate you taking the time to comment.