As I pick up myself why does it hoover like violence-
Over pale and dull and sickness?
Then I get out my pen, a death strikes in the clocks tick.
Feathers have not a bird to fly with.
Sometimes I try to type towards no remembrance, no agreeance.
My best friend gave me the brush.
And It was my portrait thick of paint yet thin in heart.
Can't flowers be less grainy, less stainless?
Can't water make no separation to a desert?
A lush green mountain in a nothingness stagnant field..
Words are all I have to get back with-
How I wish you well, how I care.
The navy that wasn't so gray is now blunt & all somber
Forgive me sister, forgive me companion-
Let me know what is done?
It was always the blue skies who beamed down.
To pose solo was my place, but never when I was good
It was never when I was good-
Just pale & dull.
And never when I go on.
