The orange blossom of the evening dawn

I’m blowing up like you thought I would, same number, same hood, it’s all good.

The evening shadows, the signs appear. Another angle we persist, you hear, quite clear. You hear, we see, but we never see at all. The thing we know is coddling us all. A smug, enough, to spark the lust. A lust between a love, only we can touch. Connections the passion, the speaker of desire. One thing, we think, is that we speak higher. The higher the passage, the greater concern. The love that we feel, sparks and we yearn. We yearn for the leader, the one who speaks loudest. They follow and bark but confused as they might just; realise one day, they too, were lead astray.

The one who speaks of love, is the one I will trust.