I've seen tomorrow & it's the same as the patchy glow of yesterday. The distant glow I was aiming towards turned out to be weak, washy, and thin. Though the days turned I had not grown an inch. What looked open had just closed up again.
We row & row.
We stay the same.
We're clutching oars.
We row & row
& reach distant shores the same as where we left & we're the same weaklings hesitating to give in.
there is only the grace of wind.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
It IS....
...too late to die young. Beach Slang knows us, just like Universe.
If all these years of searching find two sympathetic KINGS, then it's there I'll find my home.
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