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danni-1Poems
When I return, I'm running. Running home, I'm running. Home to where the tan sand lays, beaten by the waves that just want to stay. Home to where we sail till Lawson becomes a snail, so small and so unnoticed, like the little town covered in tourists. Boston to my right, and Gloucester in sight. We tell stories around the flames, put the passing train in shame. Looking up at the floating embers as they become stars to remember. Lighting up the harbor, rock by rock, keep the candle going with all your luck. The Luminaria will make you gasp, the little town is hard to grasp. So little with so much beauty, my little town is an opportunity. Art by hand and art by land. When I return, I'm running. Running home, I'm running.
0
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
Home
When I return, I'm running. Running home, I'm running. Home to where the tan sand lays, beaten by the waves that just want to stay. Home to where we sail till Lawson becomes a snail, so small and so unnoticed, like the little town covered in tourists. Boston to my right, and Gloucester in sight. We tell stories around the flames, put the passing train in shame. Looking up at the floating embers as they become stars to remember. Lighting up the harbor, rock by rock, keep the candle going with all your luck. The Luminaria will make you gasp, the little town is hard to grasp. So little with so much beauty, my little town is an opportunity. Art by hand and art by land. When I return, I'm running. Running home, I'm running.
danni-1
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danni-1
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
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