Life draws its lines, life betrays
Its own ideas.
Of ethereal biceps, of hanging bridges.
Life pursues
Astonishment, crumbles into a vacuum
Of chance.
It’s spring
And the moon is the wick
On heaven and I have only matches
For wings.
Life draws its lines, life betrays
Its own ideas.
Of ethereal biceps, of hanging bridges.
Life pursues
Astonishment, crumbles into a vacuum
Of chance.
It’s spring
And the moon is the wick
On heaven and I have only matches
For wings.
