a blanket, something you see on the day.
a reckon, that words might be going away.
and then they stare at the bay.
have been told of a soul gone away.
catch it, it may not've drifted, okay?
blank it, it may know what's out there, if may.
would you rather feel the sky, or die?
and it said, it's been a while, for i fly.
a madness had filled in the dream to be hide.
those scandals that it would have lived to have cite.
huddled in the broad all way.
sunken in the shreds whole day.
speaking to them back, it has lost.
he just went to cry, in the frost.
dead roses, said a rule.
pick blankets, for a fool.
for end, that sings here.
is death, my poor dear.