Dearest, a fire warning just came out,
And the hills have columns of clouds,
The breeze does slightly sparkle,
And the curtains do twist in pain
Like before a thunderstorm with only lightning and no rain.
The pendants dim to nothing,
No matter that fluorescence,
Cause your neighbors shed is aflame,
It illuminates the odd decor,
But it is slightly not the same.
Especially the paintings on the wall,
The wind now is streaking,
And there is nobody to call,
The dry fronds light aloft, and send out to the brush,
In turn they send to more,
Stroking more exhaust,
The ambience inside flows and moltens,
And lightens up the paintings,
As if now the meaning is open,
And have been long in waiting.
The wind outside now streaks,
To a burning blur,
The rabbit in the yard, runs in circles,
From the fire in her fur,
How can this be, a painting of a future fever dream?
Activated by the wind,
That streaks so emberly,
And what is this, a man in a valley with skis,
Wrapped head to toe,
As the sunset burns the trees,
And he coughs on snow,
Now a man with a bycicyle,
Next to an unsaddled horse,
Who now looks in haste,
The mare frightened by reports,
This! a drink on the patio with my dearest love,
At once it looks,
As if Im reclined and they eulogize from above,
Now a man trudging in a blizzard,
And disappearing so,
It's time, it's time to go,
Looking at the street's burning palms,
Now so intensely a'glow,
The streaking, ever increasing embers,
Canvassing the soul.
