A string of naked ladies,
the pink flower,
face away the ridge road.
Orange sunset spent
on the odd nude
stalks.
The ocean, not a mile away,
but the hill parched
for August.
Our blanket catches shooting stars,
nameless steaks
scorch the night.
Their Father, our Father, knows them,
but for us it's just point at heaven
and awe.
the pink flower,
face away the ridge road.
Orange sunset spent
on the odd nude
stalks.
The ocean, not a mile away,
but the hill parched
for August.
Our blanket catches shooting stars,
nameless steaks
scorch the night.
Their Father, our Father, knows them,
but for us it's just point at heaven
and awe.