puppetpoet
I want my yolks and whites separate on the plate. My winters my summers. Everything with distinction. Clear, beautiful, not confusing
golden like song he says he is strong, but old, like the sun. Will he carry me to a world of no troubles. No. No. No. I say it is mine to harbour
Take it. Follow the green path overgrown with moss winding down the valley to the river flowing red in a tidal surge. Birds circle the brimming, frothing mass of water