She sings a little song that no one hears It’s only blood, she sings. It’s only blood It marks a heart that beats for bloody years A flower starts from just a little bud The bud I have is ganja, bloodless green Sativa flowers as Sativa knows A song unsung like flowers still unseen Without a purpose, nothing ever grows A bloody song, a bloody little song Unlike the green that grows to counter pain I never found the place where I belong Where loss is something more than not to gain I’ll sing again a quiet little song Perhaps you’ll hear it too and sing along.
Archive for May, 2023
For Rose
Tuesday, May 30th, 2023The Fly
Saturday, May 27th, 2023William Blake - 1757-1827 Little fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death, Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.