They have taken away the things I love the best: sunflowers and the water and the sky and sun: what how?
Tonight I wrap up warm in a redsome shawl: it is quiet: the pen rises and falls to the pace of my dreaming.
Trains to faraway places where the seas are red and gold and green: back to the point where the roads all converge.
We will create worlds at our leisure like gods: and soon we will speak self-made languages: dug up and dusted off: alive: no longer dead:
And I will understand you and you will understand me: and we will be of one heart: and see the same things.
We will dance the same dances and sing the same songs: and make the same wondrous music we used to make, only better.
Loneliness is a horrible thing: ungentlemanly to say the least: he stands always silent and broody behind: and the moment you turn away to tend some other thing: careless: beware:
he drowns you: faugh: and draws you from the inside out: until all you are is a shadow with red holes for eyes: and red skin like fire: and a red soul for red dreaming.
But then again. Redsome things have their own uses.
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