throwback 09.13.2020: empty
a waking reflection…
a waking reflection…
And I come back to it less than more, too-sure of it, still-needing…
Perhaps I’m nothing more…
And for the golden-most…
That’s your fist in the fight…
If ever there were a man…
Hope bore you home and when you came, mystery fell and broke open wide.
The cloth of music is sewn as the spiny drum spins its wonder-thread.
Swing your smile on my heart like children play
I have exactly three cardboard boxes that smell of musty rental storage.