your eyes or hear it with your ears. It's like a Watermark that's never there and never really gone. I keep looking through old varnish. At my late lover's body. Caught on ancient canvas. And
. With borrowed wings. Mascara dark painted watermark. Wipe the traces from her cheeks. Dusted in blush, rose and apple crush. One more mask for one so weak. They say, “Doesn’t she have it all?”. “Born
lake at Bistineau, she set the wharf at Dixie. With a thousand bales of cotton on her main. As the great raft disappeared, the watermark went sinking. And she was stuck right hard, a listing on the