in process

Sing me a story.
Read me a song.


Your twenty years never yet met love.
(melt away)
Your winter nights never knew cold.
Your summer days were always freezing. 


You always wrote with triumph 
and never painted sorrow.


And purple to you was always blue.
And orange tasted sour.


Silence was your death
but loud was your salvation.
you thought.


Your twenty years sat. watched the world spin.
Every spring, you were not among the flowers, 
nor did you dance in the rain.


You did not try to understand.
And in return we did not understand you.


And sometimes when you slept, 
you dreamed of Januarys and ice houses.


And green was sweet to you. 


Quiet words had no value. 
And yellow was more somber 
than the stars over a famished land.
And orange tasted sour.
But green was sweet to you. 
And Januarys smelled of clay and dust. 


but green was sweet to you.