we live in the spaces between dead leaves on the front lawn
limbs askew
twisting among the dew
we live in the lines of my palm,
we decay this way.
we decay this way.
tenderly severing our last latent chords
from weary limbs.
from weary limbs.
"Can you just tell me why ?"
--
"and I am not a saint
just a sinner who sometimes makes mistakes."
