Yola

We can never say, who'll warm our bones, when we've been away, the picture's not kind, she can cry but she won't, home is not right, do thoughts work this way, the same as in war, when things become plain, like the harvest light, with hardly a sound, hung under a gentle sky, maybe she'll take a train, like last winter's love, that came around this way, a horizon once bright, she navigates alone, feels that it's right, a line on her face, she'll just carry on, everyone feels pain, bearing that wound.