Comes the morning, thrush will call,
from brambled hedge, or garden wall.
Sing he must, and sing he will,
though even to a silent hill.
My heart has made a garden,
where the thorn falls away from the rose.
Where every flower has your face,
the only flower that grows.
Ars Gratia Artis
Off to the museum of art we go,
with she in front and me in tow.
Absorb some culture, see the show!
She stands before some framed mish mash,
There comes a time;
when the walls fall down.
We see age in the eyes of our friends.