Thursday 23 December 2021
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.
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