Polka dots of green
cascading down a celestial sphere...
Autumn, nineteen forty-three,
my eyes have seen death...
My Black Dress
In the far corner of my closet...
The identity of expression
is the prowess of artistic creation...
Pitter patters of little feet
no longer run beneath...
Cool winds caress my skin;
And, the smell of grass and water spins...
Perfectly rigid you stand there staring.
That same sweet smile upon your face...
Last year is gone
A slice of my past...
She' s quiet and she keeps to herself
She must not care about anyone else...
Were gonna go have fun,
and let it all come out...
Laughing with composer, sat the sky,
Dangling, from a lamp, his toes...
Here child, fit into this mold
The one that's been made for you...