A sienna smear of sunset turns to accidents of grey as thunder drowns the whispers of the serious things we say
Is this about ourselves or something heard or felt some other way?
The next scene will surely bring the story line together with some tired old clich' to capture in this death of love - our Sunday Matinee
The trees bend in submission and clouds darken deepening circles Sound confuses voices with them sending memories far away to the sands below our feet and to the breeze rising from somewhere 'til there's no such thing as words that have their source inside this day
the next scene will surely bring the story line together with some tired old clich' to capture in this death of love - our Sunday Matinee
