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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=576140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Ever Setting Sun</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=576140" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">They dont keep their kilns anymore I still write poetry, <br>And those who blow glass are imperfect, <br>As the day fails into night over the golf courses and beautified <br>Apartments of America or Disney Word<br>And when the heart strings get into the gut of her, <br>She can rise up and sing to the dolphins she will <br>Never see except for on the television<br>And then she will go down again-again, letting her first born<br>Suckle upon her breast<br>She will never know what it means to celebrate Christmas: <br>Christmas, as my first wife will never know<br>She will rise up in another world, from a bed made of <br>Dinosaurs and vampires yawning: she has never seen or <br>Even heard of the woods but for now she is my muse, <br>And her arms stretch in yellow branches <br>Never knowing what she does to me as I think of the <br>Children we will make to become<br>Underneath the overpasses of the ever setting sun.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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