Gord

2020-04-21 07:02 am

On and on,
Although my hands, they shake,
Play with plants, on steaks,
How am I to find my place?
How am I to file down pane,
File down pain, or file alone again?

My violin is made from wood and string,
My heart is filled from blood for simple things,
Like dimples and rings,
Like a simpleton's dreams.