The water is livid as the grass.
We don’t dawdle; we let it pass.
Before us on the waves that swell;
And the horse that will not dwell;
Forever, we are adorned by witching hour;
The pan is rinsed, it will not scour.
Shadows are torn and rotten at the planks.
We don’t know what we feel-we let it stank.
The night shines down like a burned moon.
Destiny settles gently down; we rise in June,
And set upon flowers in their flower beds,
Waves wash gently over sea shell heads.
Dawn is an array of color-
Something along those lines we cannot sever forever.
Your eyes are intelligent; they cross tides like dreams.
And gently fold at the seams.
The cloth is hand-washed,
And is dipped in wine;
We can’t find sixteen bottles to let them shine.
Happiness is weathered against the water.
We fill the void, and cross sons and daughters,
The night is barren, we force against the season,
It won’t go past for any reason.