Days fly, and they don’t
say “hi!” or wave “bye!”
Washington
Each day, an old book closes.
It’s up the stairs and to the right.
Remember when things were different?
A Poet’s dream is to be heard
Days fly, and they don’t
say “hi!” or wave “bye!”
Each day, an old book closes.
It’s up the stairs and to the right.
Remember when things were different?
A Poet’s dream is to be heard
