Do Little

A spider is making it’s way,
Across the speckled white ceiling toward the Orchid,
That probably doesn’t get enough light to bloom.
Or perhaps away from the stinkbug on the windowsill.
So much life in the quiet evening room!
How could I ever be lonely,
Learning to talk with You?

 
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Bloody Sunday

I bring the broken flowers Picked from the side of the neighbors road. For the altar of my hippie church. Where we pray to the God of our own misunderstanding. Before I make an Irish exit In French. The glass against the album lyric you... Continue →