Cinquain Again

Tonight our moon will shine out of a brown bottle the world will spin and spin and spin around. Wasted were all the words ever said or written every drop of ink wasted on just words. Painful it is to wait my turn to post a line when W.F. Roby should be next post. Her farm was her life blood. It held her past apart from her future and the present; measured. To rest and to lay eggs to warm with my feathers to watch for cats and crows to be on-guard. Uncle, I worked for him two years in south Asia. Did not enjoy it much; too much shooting. Cigars are for baby boys, donuts are for girls as time passes nothing changes but time.