Fall into the sand,
Wall whispers it's command.
We know what it is we say,
Glee wrapped in our duvet,
She works in her own way,
Key knows where it will lay.
It works it's own way,
Pit spit amongst the clay

Why?
The burns fade in,
Deep,
Forming scars under the skin.
Scars so bold they burst,
A cacophany of shrill screams scratch softly,
Ever so softly,
At the thin skin of my inner dulcimer.
"Why?" he shouts,
"When the fire is set and the ashes,
That dark grey matter of life itself consoled,
Congeled,
Converged,
Are spread,
You do not rummage through the spoils of the spill!"