Della

What lights up the pain, the sun rise uneven, cars filling up their lanes, i call out your name, with my dawn novena, but nothing is the same, each dance was a trip, but where are my feet, a bar to shake my hips, this fine tired game, provides no beat, just a morning shame, the blonde wooden skips, are stacked like wheat, but where are the ships, can’t there remain, that coming home feeling, you once generated, each green evening.