They Call It Magic

women of the night hear my beckoned cry
women of the night listen to my sweet lullaby
You’ve answered too many times before
the silent march to end death row
and now you sit upon your street porch
dampered in a pampering glow
looking for the cat that sits wanting at your window
sweet, slow and mighty
blows the summers breeze
sweet, slow and tighty
marks the butterflies sneeze
tricklin down the sun so hot
looking at the sky like an astronaut
hoping for the autumns breathe
tricklin on the back of your sweat dripped neck
patience child is just a thing
hopelessness sets you wondering
through the woods and far below
to find yourself sitting at your window
and they call it magic

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