The Strawberry Sun,
A Perfect Disc In The Early Morning Sky,
The Last Butterfly Mureder The Dusk Before,
As Winter Claws Ripped Through The Fall Barrier,
The Moon's Face Cooled And Drifted Off,
And The Clouds Cupped The Sky In Soft Palms,
Promising November's Grey Hue,
For The Next Day,
As I Run Frost Leaves Proof Of My Path,
The Sun Now Orange,
Green Eyes Slowly Change,
Now As Yellow As The Sun Itself,
Teeth Scrape Against One Another,
As The Conifers Hold Me In Arms Made From,
The Scent Of Pine,
Stripping Skin,
The Purplish Sky Now Grey,
In Novemeber's Hue,
Now I Plead,
My Last Words,
Please Don't Wake Me Up.....