Glorious Saturday, long would I hold thee. Tight would I embrace thee. Till like a water balloon my grubby hands rupture thee and spill thy insides out upon the used up ground. Oh Saturday if only thou couldst last. . .
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Over the woodlands, swooping low, teasing of summer as they go, the winds play in trees I know. They blow to the ends from the West. And every day the wide skies call the mighty king to his mountain hall. Across the fields his footsteps fall. The sun goes home to the West. Here, the […]
Read more "In the West"