The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves
Schemes and plans are forgotten
Feelings disposed Into the neither
of nothingness do we ascend
Lamenting Guitars are plucking
And the duty lamp lightly lit
We have come home to dream
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 10:10 AM UTC
The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves
Schemes and plans are forgotten
Feelings disposed Into the neither
of nothingness do we ascend
Lamenting Guitars are plucking
And the duty lamp lightly lit
We have come home to dream