That moon-amber night
That we fell down in the field
We held on so tight
That our souls had to yield
You started to shiver
Like ripples on the river
But our hearts were full
And we were both so very warm
chorus
v2
The words that you breathed
Were works of passion I craved
Your lovely breast heaved
As grain stalks waved
The thrush barely sleeping
River warily seeping
Our hearts were beating
Like two boats in a storm
Chorus
We were
Brave summer lovers
Always off together
Scorning the others
Interlocked forever
We hid in the shadows
Made love 'neath the willows
Always riding the storm
The talk of her father's farm
v3
Yes we counted every star
Gathered 'em like fireflies
Stuffed inside a jar
Too in love to realize
Young hearts will be broken
Keep mine as a token
Tonight my love
We shall not be forlorn
chorus
v4
Those moon-amber nights
Can last into the winter
With all of our might
We continue to be tender
The cold makes us shiver
Burning now with fever
Our hearts grow dull
I'm to leave your father's farm
chorus
About the Creator
Charles Turner
My work is based on who I am now and have been in the past. It is based on a lifetime of reading. Autobiography, standard fiction, sci/fi, fantasy, westerns. I plan to put together a collection of short stories to publish via Amazon.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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