No Matter.

Writing on pages with holes and letting ribbons scratch the surface
Being practical flew out of the cage with white wings dyed in red wine
I want to cut the ballet short just to catch new raindrops landing on the evening smoke but we’re still not sure about the arms on the clock; they’re becoming legs
My wax legs are melting so they’ll have to fetch the waves and put them in a jar to share with me
We’re laughing up a storm being called the golden boys in purple dresses
I can’t wait for spring to bloom in fall, because that’s the only time winter shows itself