In a view of fret and furry I died.
What can I say of this casted glory?
I will say she is the bloom and I cry.
Dreams by paradise, nightmares I cried.
Come down to my level to learn and fly.
Drift with Eagles’ eyes and draw to his side.
Black tar poured on the flower is a lie.
To dream is an effort put on sleep-time.
To live is a work of sunshine in eye.
A trek across the bridge without a dime.
Racked by pain and eerie dreams I may cry.
Trolls are under the bridge to end the rhyme.
I have learned the hard ways of being shy.