Dreaming of a field of pastel giraffes
Waking in a house made of photographs
Well, if you choose to come outside,
We will see, my dear, if I’m still alive

I will run and you’ll chase me like a dog
Across the lovely fen and scented bog
Kids will run and kids will play
But darling, I want a kiss today.

(I haven’t seen you in years
But you’ve seen my face in a hundred years).
If you catch me then baby well see
If the foxhole house is suitably shady.

“O what golden years those were, yes indeed!”
Your search to forget lost friends like the weed
Among poisoned flowers that never dies.
I call you your name and you answer with a cry,

”Our tattered remains for a sadistic parade,
But even now I’m still afraid
Afraid for you
Afraid of you

But a life without you is really just no sort of life at all.”




~For those who can never forget