Quite - The Autumns

All sunk in slumber

Eyes bedewed

Your lips will come unglued

Though tears becloud the sight

Of kites torn asunder

In the blue

A silver spittle slew

We grace wings under night

Drain the day

Plain on her dripping face

Is the sun in gold and glace

Pain like the lorries

Tracing their circles

In search of something gay

Thrice blinks the bride

And mothers mew

These nectar rivers stir

To pollenate your eyes

Quiet in the neverland of noon

The smell of sinking moons

And drool of gentle lies