My baby is thousands of miles away from me for some days. So this afternoon, instead, on the keyboard I improvised.
A Spartan of kitchen left overs,
Baby that turned into me.
Bring me a sea tale, moreover
And raise a breeze-filled nautilus, the product of sand
leftover,
To ear, ma’ dear.
Lot of us wonder how rope n thread, in droves of red
Raise glasses in toast:--to the living and to el’ dead.
A figure/fact-concealing sentiment, we don all the time,
okay.
It’s the mix of it.
So let posture flow free from threat. In your mind’s witness protection program as no
one to recognize the edge like you. Facebook
a status is waiting, ‘morning to the world beyond you.
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