Buried in grief, without a word to say
A lark I once was, harkened by not one
A scribe of dust, winded by gusts of day
To what twist, what pull, to which great foray
As mundane as life, yet I seek to b’lay
A time, a place, a mark, a trace, a sigh—
Buried in grief, without a word to say
A lark I once was, harkened by not one
A scribe of dust, winded by gusts of day
To what twist, what pull, to which great foray
As mundane as life, yet I seek to b’lay
A time, a place, a mark, a trace, a sigh—