Yannisa

When i was losing cred, you cried don't be undone, i won't see you again, you sent me ahead, dancing forlorn, where else but the tent, freedom a sense of dread, unlike Anthony Powell, who'd sat and read, having given a son to tread, a lonely path alone, lost like Pliny in his head, couldn't pray for rest, or listen to the stones, his manner always myriad, unlike mine let it be said, when our paths have gone, use lipstick instead, throw music at my storm.