forged and laid
five new stripes to the wound
wondered about a forehead-turned stick
green smell of morning, aching to out-run
far field
I held tight to the lift, the hope that morning
would be forgotten, would become eternal
wondered about a forehead-turned stick
green smell of morning, aching to out-run
far field
I held tight to the lift, the hope that morning
would be forgotten, would become eternal