My Hands Have Got No Gloves


This is for the person that doesn’t want anymore
To know a broken dream
To make things feel as they somehow seem
To need to pose and be delight
To hold the world and bend the light
But aye me, it’s a lark and song
The days seem short, the days seem long
And listen close to whispered tales
Of sages with oranges willing to fail
And there’s something that’s magic there
On winter’s evening in the warm, moist air
A solemn promise on solstice tide
To pick us up and give a ride



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