Is it raining out on those rotten barks,
Or is the sun killing green leaves
Into an autumn without crimson beauty?
In musing and in hope,in fear of knowing
The true shape of a fire lit inside
A burning house,I have dwelled in dreams
Of reality and thus forsaken the reality
Of dreams;With my languid hands,I've
Painted half a brook,quarter of a moon
And half of me stares at the sky,but when
Were half the stars ever enough for
A moment's night?
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 9:52 AM UTC
Is it raining out on those rotten barks,
Or is the sun killing green leaves
Into an autumn without crimson beauty?
In musing and in hope,in fear of knowing
The true shape of a fire lit inside
A burning house,I have dwelled in dreams
Of reality and thus forsaken the reality
Of dreams;With my languid hands,I've
Painted half a brook,quarter of a moon
And half of me stares at the sky,but when
Were half the stars ever enough for
A moment's night?