my poem.

[sulis]

Its strange, I read the July issue of the Word magazine because Leonard's picture was on the front, and his being reported as having said that nothing rhymes with Orange turned around in my mind, and I offer this small poem like a cat leaving a fishbone on your doorstep as a thankyou.

The past is a burning light
She runs through your dream
Forever at the ends of empty streets at night
Restlessly through time

She wears flowers in her long red hair
Lost daughter of the Sun
She climbs the steps, her feet are bare
And leaves flowers for everything thats gone

Weary, cold, hungry, searching for love
Shrouded in snow
Summer flowers in her hair
Which way did she go?

As the night starts to glow
The past is so strange
A sunset from long ago
Returning, burning Orange.

[littlebitlonger]

So there is such a woman for such a man.
Dear one.