Then the sun lifts Earth,
turns it out to be ok.
I'll turn myself out the same.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
Morning Chimes
Then the sun lifts Earth,
turns it out to be ok.
I'll turn myself out the same.
