When the merry pranksters paint

on years,
On the dance of whispers.
Where have we gone

When the merry pranksters
Painted the soul
Of a child to woman born
Where dares she grow

From woodstock
She chanced to dream
But what did those
Years, mean.

She thought they
Would stay… forever.

But a child to woman grows
It’s all a body knows
It’s the stains
That paint
On one’s remains
As they ride the wind
Sweet wind

And so,
Still she rides
On tomorrow’s dreams
Sweeter wind stitching
A woodstock witching
And always free…

– jude

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (2 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

When the merry pranksters paint