Recall the light that swam within

their bleeding parchment core.

Listen to the petals fall,

for that light shines no more.


Oh see ephemeral ashes

as they drift within the snow,

and ask your better questions,

for the dreamers always know.


Yes, listen to the oil paint

in old and shattered space.

For once we saw upon the page

the journey of this place.


And how can you not see it?

And why do you not feel

the difference twixt the present

and what is truly real?