Hindered by sober restlessness.
Submitting to the amber crutch.
The theme in my aching prose.
Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan;
that pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame.
The rebirth of mutual love.
The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly.
'I"m dying.'
- 'Is it blissful?'
'It"s like a dream.'
- 'I want to dream.'
Submitting to the amber crutch.
The theme in my aching prose.
Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan;
that pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame.
The rebirth of mutual love.
The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly.
'I"m dying.'
- 'Is it blissful?'
'It"s like a dream.'
- 'I want to dream.'