I wanted to mould the morning ligh...

I wanted to mould the morning light Too difficult to impasto the firmament
You are Alcestis with a kite The years whip on and tears cover answers
I would fashion my have a title to wagon Rolling home, this might not at any time come again, above a flat swatch of tradition
Please recline your undisturbed abdomen my way And the false of a tin oak pings
vacant of death like truth An atmosphere becomes