Words tumbling, lime green hills rolling deep into the south,
to the forest surrounding it all, where ghosts knot through.
Where the old man sits, watching pleasantly,
as the lumberjacks hack away at the trees he planted when he was a young man.
Worlds falling, sweet perfume breezing hazily through,
to the dwellings sparsely skulking, where ale runs deep.
Where the young soul scratches at his arms,
waiting for the memories of repentant periods to drift and depart.
You’d better learn to glide along,
So you can fall gracefully.
Grab a fucking tissue, kid!
No comments:
Post a Comment