The Letters are Never Dead, But They Certainly Don't Stay

Painting it with dabs of dirty red
It seems our summer never ends
There's one heart beating
With an elevated feeling
And you're coming swinging
With fingers crossed
With singing composure
In your thorn enclosure
I couldn't keep you closer.

I have irrigated from your visions
your botanically forlorn little finger...
Couldn't cultivate a hole to band.
Exchanging moments of hermitage,
Your lovely hair, bourbon threads
Sharing shreds with your closest
Friends.
Your little links are murmuring,
whispering disbelief from the
soles of their connected feet
Children should not behave this way.