"grange" poems
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
1.8k
I climb the hill: from end to end
Of all the landscape underneath,
I find no place that does not breathe
Some gracious memory of my friend;
No gray old grange, or lonely fold,
Or low morass and whispering reed,
Or simple stile from mead to mead,
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold;
Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw
That hears the latest linnet trill,
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill
And haunted by the wrangling daw;
Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves
To left and right thro' meadowy curves,
That feed the mothers of the flock;
But each has pleased a kindred eye,
And each reflects a kindlier day;
And, leaving these, to pass away,
I think once more he seems to die.
1.6k
There was an old person of Grange,
Whose manners were scroobious and strange;
He sailed to St. Blubb,
In a waterproof tub,
That aquatic old person of Grange.
1.6k
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;
Or underneath the barren bush
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;
Come, wear the form by which I know
Thy spirit in time among thy peers;
The hope of unaccomplish'd years
Be large and lucid round thy brow.
When summer's hourly-mellowing change
May breathe, with many roses sweet,
Upon the thousand waves of wheat,
That ripple round the lonely grange;
Come: not in watches of the night,
But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
Come, beauteous in thine after form,
And like a finer light in light.
1.5k
Gently she raised her dress, revealing where the axe struck the tree,
"Here, a forest once thrived," she whispered solemnly,
Then came the scars, pathways for plastics to reach the sea,
Regret's sewage flowing through springs, an unwanted decree.
Landmines left pockmarks on her face, remnants of war's blight,
Awaiting the innocent, seeking to maim and to ignite,
Deep incisions from perilous landslides, a haunting sight,
A testament to the struggles endured day and night.
She revealed the melting snow, beckoning an avalanche of change,
Witnessing a road where an unsightly swamp once held its range,
Broken ships and skeletons, remnants left estranged,
Abandoned in the depths, hidden in ocean's grange.
Finally, she pointed to the scorching sun with teary eyes, "It didn't burn so fiercely until this heart carried its demise."
Jun 20, 2023
Jun 20, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
winter is leaving
snow melts by the rise of degrees
and the sun beaming
every ice breaks
waters leave the structure
the air batters them down as it wakes
blooming arrives like a ghost
through the walls
spring awakes every plant
from big to small
warm breeze carries musical notes
trees and oats are shaking rhytmically
colorful gardens carry their fragrance whimsically
we receive another chance
to leave a trace in the winds
near the agricultural grange
let us tune our guitars
play our arrangement
and make the changement
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:33 AM UTC
There isn’t much left of The Grange today,
There isn’t much left at all,
Only a charred left wing, I think,
And the odd, still standing wall,
The central Hall is a pile of ash
As it was, the day I left,
Sat on the back of the doc’s grey mare
As the Lady Mary wept.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this
On the day of the wedding ball,
Balloons and streamers hung from the roof
As the marriage carriage called,
Annette stepped out like a fairy queen
In her ****** white, and lace,
While Reece, the Groom, in the wedding room
Had a smile on his handsome face.
And I led the Lady Mary in
To the mother’s pride of place,
I only had eyes for her that day
As she walked with a widow’s grace,
It wasn’t a secret, I yearned for her
But this was her daughter’s day,
So I was content with the hand she lent
For she squeezed, along the way.
The priest stood up by a lectern as
The guests all prayed and knelt,
To bless their way on this wedding day
I’m sure it was truly felt,
But Mary’s brother-in-law was there
With an evil look in his eye,
He’d wanted to claim the Grange from her
Since the day her husband died.
‘The Grange belonged to my family,’
He’d say, ‘and I want it back,
You only married into the place
When you wed my brother, Jack.’
He made an offer, but she said no,
The Grange had become her home,
‘You sold your part to Jack at the start
Before you went off to roam.’
But Douglas, he had an evil mind
And his countenance was stern,
He said if he couldn’t have The Grange
Then he’d rather see it burn.
He’d brought three barrels of gunpowder
Unseen, but out in the yard,
He chose this day to make Mary pay,
We should have been on our guard.
The guests were all engaged at the front
When he wheeled the barrels in,
It takes a mind of evil intent
To imagine this kind of sin,
Annette had lifted her wedding veil
And raised her lips to the groom,
When all hell suddenly came to play
In the depths of that wedding room.
The hall was full of the screams and cries
Of those who lay on the floor,
While I picked the Lady Mary up
And carried her out to the door,
It was there we saw the bride, Annette
Who’d made it out to the porch,
The groom was dead, but the bride had fled
As her dress went up like a torch.
There isn’t much left of The Grange today,
There isn’t much left at all,
Only a charred left wing, I think,
And the odd, still standing wall.
But the Lady Mary married me
In the wake of all the strife,
Her daughter’s gone, but our love is strong,
And Douglas is serving life.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
Think about it and you'll realize
that there is no better color than wine-stained teeth
on high school students' prom nights
and muffled giggles from the girls
bathroom in the banquet hall of some
community center or middle school
gymnasium or overgrown grange hall
tell the secrets of the universe
under rushing water and dripping mascara
and notes scrawled in the grout with hearts
and other embellishment
Damp palms on shoulders and waists
with batting lashes and shy smiles and
stomachs growling from a skipped dinner
toes turned outward, awkward
when the slow song moves to charging beat
and hands flex like an accidental graze on the hot stove
a hip shake to assuage and seem like they meant it all along
that moment guides the other movements
and other movements
Driving up the hills and back down into the canyon
up the fire trail and to the right, no, the second right
crap, you passed it, turn around
watch the glitter lights of neighborhoods and boats
know there really are no better photographs
than those from disposable cameras that are blurred and laughing
developed weeks later and comingled with images of her dog
and your mom
and the backyard with candles blown out
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.
I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.
I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.
I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money, fair exchange.
I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Once his kind were ubiquitous; Men and their ponies herding live beef
from the prairies of Kansas and Texas to the slaughterhouses North East
It was a hard life, but good, nights out under the stars; amusing themselves with a song.
There was beans and good coffee shared at the fire; The prairie wind blew sweet and long.
Then the trains came and life wasn’t the same and the cowboys all faded away.
Old Tex was the last of that vanishing breed; He’d tell me tall tales of those days
when he and his crew battled rustlers and snakes to see the herd safe to their doom.
His skin was like leather from the wind and the sun; his big hands arthritic and gnarled.
A roll your own cigarette drooped from his lips and his speech sounded more like a snarl.
Tex passed on last night, a blessing they say, to die in his sleep with no pain.
No churchyard for Tex, he will rest ‘neath the sod just out beyond the old grange
He was the last of a vanishing breed; a man to his quarter horse wed.
The land that he loved will keep changing above, but the wind and the stars never change.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
I think of the waves
Crashing into the ****
The rocks are sturdy there
In west port washington.
And on the rocks
A shorebird got closer
To where
I stood proud
On the unmovable
Pile of boulders.
I could tell you
This was it.
But a star fish
Exposed the air I breath
In a moment of beauty.
The waves flicker like lite bulbs.
The split seconds are eons
With out times way of saying
Got ya now.
You know
How the you
And ocean.
Meet in the shores
And die in the earth.
How can the spirit of mythology
Tell me the rocks where once human.
And the boy told his mother you swollowed
A pebble.
He returned to free his uncles.
They called him the stone boy.
if I stand here for four days
Ill break down like gravel in the grange.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
The grange had got it's new tenants at last
Swiftly approaching it's great gates
They were a beef eating bunch of a bloodline
horse and carriage and all
Driven by a shirtless whip in sunburnt skin and an ivy cap
The sun above a dreadful shade of burning peach and sky of sickest sea blue
The master twiddled his thumbs as he leaned out the window
Watching the gate part
The letter open on his desk
Not as much as an telephone call
Just a stack of notes and a newspaper clipping
Smartly closed in red sealing wax
Did they not know what had happened here just a year before?
_______________________________
At lunchtime in five weeks
All was not well
Not one bit
The garden swing hung off it's hinge
Creaking in a minor key
Drops of blood the same shade as sealing wax disrupted the floral wallpaper which lay abandoned on the garden path
lumps of earth were roughly dispersed
Four lumps
For that one bloodline
One year, five weeks and a few lonely hours
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Deep earthen roots, gold arrow-tips,
Sounding rush of green applause
Now, trees and bark stretch to
Higher lows of raptured skies.
Wide face of etched ranks and--
Here His marks tread and silence falls
Quite tenderly under winding timber,
Woodworks, Tree-rings, bound around
As clocks tick to celestial Grange's face.
His deeds show across baked-ancients
And those whose sun came creeping under
Horizontal terms and periods-- in lapses
when Time held his own--
On winding old branches with buds smelling
Young n' green n' poking free from yellow scars,
Time garnered his people, his children and dead,
housed them in ticks and tocks and surnames,
For Twilight's enamelled hubris to bathe them,
Wash them.
To set them in winding bark,
And brand them in Himself,
In Winding Tree-tocks.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
I
Dans les planches d'anatomie
Qui traînent sur ces quais poudreux
Où maint livre cadavéreux
Dort comme une antique momie,
Dessins auxquels la gravité
Et le savoir d'un vieil artiste,
Bien que le sujet en soit triste,
Ont communiqué la Beauté,
On voit, ce qui rend plus complètes
Ces mystérieuses horreurs,
Bêchant comme des laboureurs,
Des Écorchés et des Squelettes.
II
De ce terrain que vous fouillez,
Manants résignés et funèbres,
De tout l'effort de vos vertèbres,
Ou de vos muscles dépouillés,
Dites, quelle moisson étrange,
Forçats arrachés au charnier,
Tirez-vous, et de quel fermier
Avez-vous à remplir la grange ?
Voulez-vous (d'un destin trop dur
Épouvantable et clair emblème !)
Montrer que dans la fosse même
Le sommeil promis n'est pas sûr ;
Qu'envers nous le Néant est traître ;
Que tout, même la Mort, nous ment,
Et que sempiternellement,
Hélas ! il nous faudra peut-être
Dans quelque pays inconnu
Écorcher la terre revêche
Et pousser une lourde bêche
Sous notre pied sanglant et nu ?
695
Deep in the gloom of her bedroom,
Young Kathy dried her tears,
It wasn’t as bad as the red room
She’d been banished to for years,
At least up there she could lie and dream
And play with her music box,
Not hear her parents arguing,
Whether they did, or not.
At least up here was her sanctuary
Where she could dream all day,
Of skipping out in the poppy fields
Where all the children play,
She’d lie there nursing a broken heart
For the loss of her former life,
For all had changed in her home, The Grange
When he took a second wife.
When her father took a second wife
And his face became so grim,
It seemed she couldn’t do anything right
For the sake of pleasing him,
The woman snapped and the woman snarled
And she said to call her Ma,
But Kathy had kept her lips shut tight
That was just one bridge too far.
So she lay and opened the paste-board lid
And the dancer, up she leapt,
Straightening out her toutou as
She tried one pirouette,
With one hand up to her forehead and
The other fixed and set,
The dancer twirled in her private world
To a Mozart minuet.
And Kathy thought she was beautiful
As she balanced on her toes,
A look of grace on her tiny face
And the flush of love, it shows,
With glitter up in her auburn hair
And a spangle on each shoe,
The thought had formed as the doll performed,
‘I wish I could be like you!’
‘I wish I could be like you,’ she thought
‘So small, and full of grace,
I’d never have to go down again
With tears on my face,
I’d wait till somebody wound me up
Then I’d dance for them with pride,’
And something happened to Kathy then,
A change that she felt inside.
For all the while that the dancer twirled
To the Mozart minuet,
It took in Kathy’s tear-stained face
And it seemed somewhat upset,
‘Why should she have this lovely room
And a life that I’m denied,
I wish I could be like you,’ it thought,
And the two thoughts did collide.
There seemed a change in the very air
Of that too secluded gloom,
When everything with bated breath had
Stopped in that fated room,
Then Kathy leapt to her feet with joy
And a final pirouette,
While the dancer smiled as at first she trialled
To that Mozart minuet.
The father arrived back home that night
To a scene of blood and gore,
His wife impaled with a table knife
Lay dead on the kitchen floor,
While Kathy twirled in the poppy fields
In a show of poise and grace,
And there in the bedroom, up above
There was blood on the dancer’s face.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
how fresh the world was complex and still strange
as we crossed shark-filled seas with little thought
of what bright magics in the clouds were caught
or what the cities past the mountain range
would have for us instead we sought the grange
the country quiet where oldest rules were taught
in plainest movement from old is to ought
from then to now where all we did was change
into clear selves who know the middle way
by just refinement of that youthful choice
made all rejoicing under bluest sky
for we who learn the paths and tracks of day
know it's no simple thing to have a voice
and far more difficult to keep an eye
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
tired liar, uninspired
wire-rider
biting fire
un-learned burn-out
doubting the clout, pouting
routing trout
without
nets
regrets beset
vetted pets
wet with fret
filleted
displaying range
grange hall dancers manage
manic prancing horses
trotting in the allotted plot
sought, bought
caught in the cot
as the hot won’t stop
relentlessly attacking my inspiration
leaving me only with **** like
this
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
drove down to the cemetery
hitting potholes head on
down gravel roads
praying a hole six feet deep
filled by a cushiony bed
would welcome me with open arms
and a sermon to bless my slumber
drove up to the grange
tires skidding and kicking dust
up in the dirt parking lot
wishing upon an American flag
stars torn up by the wind
that those gusts would lift me up
and give me a ride to heaven
driving up and down this hill
over and over
when i should've driven to the airport
and left the world for good
Aug 23, 2024
Aug 23, 2024 at 8:04 PM UTC
Once private priviledged and aloof
the Grange is now a public place
where children swing and slide and shine
flowers in their parents' eyes
where births and marriages and deaths
bare bones rest in Runcorn's archive.
Here people seek to right their wrongs
express their doubts and fears and views
it's here that ballots call the shots
for mayors and councillors and clerks
pursuing our priorities.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
Call me what ever you want.
I was raised on highway star
& smoke on the water,
a bit of purple haze
& a whole lotta love.
Ain't nothing strange
'bout La Grange &
that girl with faraway eyes
was never my beast of burden.
I got tied to the whipping post
& survived with the young turks
on the stairway to heaven.
So it really doesn't matter
what name you call me.
But just imagine
if you drank some eliminator,
you'd be stone blue too.
And that alone,
makes me invincible.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
four students
printed out sudoku
ac unit whirrs in the room
the disappointment pressed
slacks
too sunk for
integrals and L'Grange
krooser warms my desk
eyelids drooping
sentences left in the birches
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 1:21 AM UTC
full nights in february
when the sun tells the highway headlights are its understudy
study notes that we know with yellow cups of whiskey
and cigarette breaks, cake batter chapstick breaks the ice
you're so nice - finally someone to do my dance and teach me new steps
signs stir laughs and songs give us direction instead
just ahead an hour or 3 add up to be memory and i won't fall asleep
i am one with the water fountain clouds change into mountains but somehow it's always home
i'm known to wander but now i'm inside i tried to hide from being whole but it's the role
i stole pink ribbon buttons goods and good company by the dam' d river i shiver from the thought of ever going back
snack ******* crumbs sneak in the seat where we started and im saving them for tomorrow
can i borrow some honey just a shot or two from you its the sweetest coat
throat tense in high harmony on stage left or maybe right maybe you're right
tonight it's not really over its just fulfilled
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
if ******
who's never
ethereal in
our maiden
world yet
his sojourn
when grange
was his
attraction that
cogito heard
Mussorgsky on
Frontier March
while very
much inside
his hat
for our
generations alas
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC