To the transition from mail call to bills paid, we are toe taping to sweet jazz.
The parade of mad eyes and moo sounds is in endless pavements and glorious sunday skies.
Dinah won’t you blow your horn and create our wet days of memories.
And with the overweight life boarded away in layers of hate, we have lost.
Creativity between our skin and waves of power hunger are connecting and falling for the peace maker.
I smile from deceased love on my typewriter.
Bonding to the tallest bar constantly rising.
Here is the life I carry on and on.
No comments:
Post a Comment