Parading

Level as moonlight, some lost aspect

I ran into the handwriting of yours

spray of ink most certainly

Freedom is a rocket,

To be the thing not touched by light (no that’s not it)

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

big bell says: ‘We are all strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have

Mostly the world is lava’s rhythm,

Who can blame us for wanting other worlds,

I’ve weighed the alternatives, the hold