I'm looking for a mountain where the eyes follow faces, cause skin fits to skin like a hand on a lover.
And you keep on tramping, you come back my dear friend, and ride on the wagon along with the hunter, what sweet paws he pulls from beneath you, your luck, his treasure.
Albeit, through tired and rough, keep on licking worn-wicker feet of mine, will travel for just scorch marks, but again with each shock comes yet another thick-raised white line.
I caught up with such a fox, and your neck in his teeth, he said 'take a breath and she bleeds' so I'm waiting and watching, till riffraff ensues, do you part.
But I know it will end when the teeth catch his foot, see the hounds catch the snide and the liars; yet pride we know kindly, as a hook with a pretty red-white-blue.
We know love, we know murder, they may be one the same, so call martyr upon what he exudes, he's a coward of all the right words, and he carries your sorrow, right up on his back, and the girls on the track, all the details are just like you wish they would.
I'm looking for a mountain where the eyes follow races, cause skin fits to skin like a hand on slick rubber.
Along, you ride wagon-wise, gentle young fool,
Along, you'll be safe inside, be we winter, he is cruel.
YOU ARE READING
Virgin Moon Phases
PoetryMy first official collection of poetry and prose written by yours truly, the brush fire witch. I take my writing very deeply to heart, and if you read it, I hope you will too.
