Wyona

Your tunes still trace, patterns on shimmering trees, from my blue pathways, add them to a shipwreck, a pirate roving sea, I’ll spill a golden confession, on swollen straits, I kick my heels, down cluttered seaways, can't feel my knees, but I still see dreams, you cry too easy, before a mass one Sunday, bread, wine victory, torn netting wood and sail, your privateer schemes, billow before me, like a broken creed, your howl is lovely.