No more withering in the flames,
no more tales of running away,
this coast is too bleak to see the breadth
of aurora paint and consciousness,
and yet all I can think of in this grey mass,
is how all of despair, must come to pass.

I watch as the white clouds settle in,
pushing storm out of the sky,
passing it on to another sorry state,
as small paradise emerges in my wake,
and so I cling to the vapour of desperation,
pleading for adaptation.

I watch as clouds crash into cities,
pushing life out of the streets.
I dream of war and tambourine men,
and of what latent content could mean.
Yet with each nightmare of my waking mind,
I return to sleep in nature's umbilical bind.

No more singing of yesterdays,
no more faces stained in the clouds,
this glass is full and overflowing
as good intention spreads to all;
I turn to the world with arms stretched out wide,
to speak of my terrors, in which you, I confide.