Sing the Song

I crush the skin, not the bone, in this disharmony.  You see me as brave baby slave.  It helps with anatomy, not biography.  I pick up the cane and throw it as a javelin in the sea.  Seeing the beings as pornography never gets you home properly.  See a gazelle by a stream and shoot a bow, not a rifle.  There are pictures there for a phenomenal scene.  Mortar is absent, and I hold a Navajo bowl for you to eat greens.  On this day, my hair is black, and my eyes are green.  Do you see the stripe of pink on your hand trying to bring you relief from the touch that was too much?  There is a lens in your mind, but you choose the sun as the being to beat and soak up the scene.  Many things are offensive, so I walk on a small balance beam made from the branch of a tree.  My gown is linen night ware, thus this is not a nightmare.  Picture it all properly, and I will hold your hand and we can just be as the lute does play from behind a giant bolder.  Today, we see that it is a tomb and is a room for silent play.  I can be a mistress that is not bliss.  My fingertips are gray, and I teach lessons of becoming as your rage falls like dew drops on my fairly warn palms.