Old stained glass by former torments
torrents of dirt washed down invisibly
until rays of sun cover wet ground
"we're jumping and kicking puddles, I don't know why, but I won't exercise and I can't dance, No sound rhythmic to chaotic winter's pass"
I'm holding the seashell to my ear for the millionth time
and by now, old news brings reminisce
I've put the past inside drifting balloon
and I can see this is your sky
when you're too good, at writing it all down
and here,
joyless in dystrophic rhythmic sound
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