I walk on streets of endless rose,
My footsteps drenched in light,
The ghosts of passing lovers,
Sing their songs throughout the night,
And they dance with me in aromatic fright,

On a field of wheat and amber,
Does the sun begin to fall,
Yes, the sweet molasses trickles,
To the tune of rain’s withdrawal,
They sing to me, I sing to one and all,

Horses, auburn, warm the bones,
Of scarlet’s blossoms in their stead,
As they ponder at the beauty,
Of these things so newly dead,
My fingertips immerse within their bed,

The leaves of crimson morning,
Dance like gypsies on the sea,
Finally drifting to the shallows
As they kiss good night their tree,
I seep into the jasper lazily,

For they know that nothing matters,
And that nothing’s to be said,
While the ancient, painted fingertips,
Release a faded red,
And to my lips do lovers like these wed,

To myself, I start to wonder,
In such chaos lies a gleam,
Still a glisten of remembrance,
Of a long, forbidden dream,
Things are never really what they seem,

Shall the world resume its turning,
Once the battles have been won?
Shall the death of one day’s yearning,
Bring such splendor to our sun?
Am I, within this thought, the only one?

For we are dust in winds of matter,
We are ink on worlds of white,
Watching horses by the river,
Doomed to kiss ourselves goodnight,
Taking on the winter’s blinding sight,

Growing into false formation,
Like a golden, bitter wine,
We are leaves of generation,
Drifting off from time to time,
Finding nothing quite as beautiful as crime