Thursday, 4 April 2019


No doubt our guns are way too loud,
but its the words that turn me inside out.
The sun we thought just shone on us,
has its own fuel it seems to burn out.
Words that lived to our manifest,
and ours smoldering affections,
In all our playing best,
learning from reflections.
It could sit and burn all night,
to give us the sweetest tan.
such to neither be poetry,
nor a prose, must all can understand.
So we wail in their playfulness,
And they never fail to amuse.
Clap and clap in the hands to use, 

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