Little lover

little-lover

She’s comin’ down to white noise,

pickin’ it up again with new tunes.

A placid day becomes all blue,
she’s driving to the clouds.

Head up there, a golden mind.

If she were a writer,
she’d capture that breeze.

If she were a painter,
she’d bring you to your knees.

She’d be a wild gardener,
growing flowers to the trees.

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