His mother was asleep in the car—
red-cheeked as a painted doll.
Her eyes fixed on some distant
point beyond his shoulder. He turned
but saw nothing.
His father unlocked the door,
and moved her head as if to pose her, but
his mother was asleep in the car.
red-cheeked as a painted doll.
Her eyes fixed on some distant
point beyond his shoulder. He turned
but saw nothing.
His father unlocked the door,
and moved her head as if to pose her, but
his mother was asleep in the car.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson