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I'm suspended now, hanging in the aiay of a weather beaten town December rolls around, lays a blanket of herself on the ground where comfort lives in sound, like a gun laying cold on the ground with no way to spell it out. there's still much to say of a gun left down. Most of me is elsewhere wondering shall we hear a song or shall we live one soaked to the hone. I'm suspended now, hanging in the gray of a weather heavy cloud, soften my face and bow to bid toy farewells to the ground for now part of me is sinking and pondering, hope is a gracious term, aligned with the faith that reason has a course to take, may it be the just one until then I will drown, anti to down without a fit. How glorious is it? Bound in sound, even and weightless and free from wrist to wrist |
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