The songbird sings again,from
Within the rusted metallic beams,to
My coffee cup mornings...
She sings,not to me...
She sings to another
She had once befriended...
The singular dream,painted across
The feathers,of a tired wing...
She sings to the desire,of
An unplanned independence.....
Within the rusted metallic beams,to
My coffee cup mornings...
She sings,not to me...
She sings to another
She had once befriended...
The singular dream,painted across
The feathers,of a tired wing...
She sings to the desire,of
An unplanned independence.....
but no one get what she keeps saying in the seemingly impossible hope of apparent freedom.
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