Jana

In this autumn paradise, night is black and blows, stars stick out like ice, no matter how we moan, the trees blow fierce and cold, they know we will not roam, what's wrong with being nice, wanting a home, absent features when we cry, with our luck or groan, even on the ‘phone, time to lay things down, different places make us try, tell us what we own, do we need to find out why, even in this short time, to wonder what we know, can we name our lies, don't let me die alone.