the deserter
Trees laugh at the
spilt maroon,
flooding chasms
once filled with fire.
Skies cry,
answering smoke filled questions.
Vodka tastes likes rum
and 3:30 feels like 11.
The bird watches,
wondering when to sing again.
Trees laugh at the
spilt maroon,
flooding chasms
once filled with fire.
Skies cry,
answering smoke filled questions.
Vodka tastes likes rum
and 3:30 feels like 11.
The bird watches,
wondering when to sing again.
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