gravitylens
Washington, DC
The bulb at the front door burns and burns.
If it were a white rose it would tire of blooming
through another endless night.
The moon knows the routine;
it beats the bushes from east to we…
The bulb at the front door burns and burns.
If it were a white rose it would tire of blooming
through another endless night.
The moon knows the routine;
it beats the bushes from east to we…