When we are crashed on hillsides drinking clouds
As wind turns pebbles from the ancient trees
Often my mind has cause to enshroud
The moment in bliss, till all memories cease
For we are the keepers of Time my dear!
Scorn death to a dream - and growing old?
Tis no more than chairs by the brink of a broken pier
As crowds blend to gulls, and horizons to gold
Yet even as binds release our form
Clouds unfurl and truth winks from afar
I remember the reason that we each were born
And clumsily fumble your bra.
No comments:
Post a Comment