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If They Ask Tell Them We're Dead
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Willow Lake Park
The low tide repeatedly return,
like old times it whisper and it burns.
It enfolds, it anchors & grows while separating kingdoms.
A blunt fight, the rendering of new sights,
in this might, the crescent's spear of light
Will define, defile and fight the remnants of the low tide
Is this it or is there anyone left to see it?
Is this it or is there anyone?
Dense light, the silence and the fright.
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The heart knows but mind is set aside.
As it grows, I can't let go, connectors are to slow
When outside I plummet and I fall when
I heard the invitation call the slow blow
of tidal growth will redefine it all.
Is this it or is there anyone left to see it?
Is this it or is there anyone?
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