17/11/13

Folks speak of the lost boys once a midnight orchid blooms.
Of where they play and hide by a moonlit bay and sandy coast.
Without a care or a house, finding shelter under wise trees holding hands as a shack.
They ease the strong winds of November with rusted strings,
plucking notes with muddy fingers, they hum the usual song pulling splinters off their minds.

And there is rain that drowns the dancing melancholy in their little hearts,
as rippling ocean waves imitate their breaking bones and pulse.
As the thunder beats of laughter and of sorrow,
wooden guitars tap out the tearing droplets that spill from their sleepy thoughts.