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lyrics

My roses think it’s spring,
the few that I have left.
The sun has fooled them, as I
was fooled by myself. Bereft,
Oh, I wish I could sing
soft, with the lonesome bird’s sigh.

Soiling approaches
at conclusions of bonds,
with petrifying glances,
your eyes, two sorrowful wands.
As morning encroaches,
I'm glad I took my chances.

Sour, not, shall grow the fruit,
this coming spring, of our
friendship, nor does this mean good
Bye. Trimmed, as by a tailor
with his scissors --acute--
Gently, roses understood.

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charlie shuck Jacksonville, Florida

a poet and songwriter from jacksonville, florida.


listen with your eyes
shut or looking at the stars.

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