Do not fret to see the clouds besides horizon,
Chirping a soliloquy,
dead beneath the shore.
Governed in a blue light,
Your arms open more,
And I see what is again beneath your maddening open door.
Greatest in the melody,
Your enchanted means of singing,
Are but desolate I now implore.
Bestroking in an afternoon sun,
Your melody washes to the shore,
A tick a lick and tilly tum.
The places of unforgotten gore.