Now's 4 o'clock, pitch dark, outside she lies

Wood bench is all that keeps her from the ground

The winter chills, her hands will face the skies

Perhaps in morning here she will be found

No one wonders where she may have gone to

And no one fears the cold will steal her eyes

No one stirs awake and checks her bedroom

Warm breath grows cold to bare a dead disguise

The park is winter, call her frosty lashes

But California breezes are her dreams

Sweet slumber last, a flame before the ashes

A never waking ray of sunshine beams

Its knowledge too that death comes unsuspected

Yet grave'd so deep, no soul is resurrected