Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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For this song I wrote / in this tune I mote,

Under the bright lit sun / rain drops pouring

Over the cabin door / the shadows within call

For the hidden voice / that whisps, the fainting

Song bird falling from / a sky that always hums:

Beware thee

Shadows, fallowing...

Burned willows fall.

Nature's calling call / in this masquerade ball,

A song not fit for love / or joy for the crypt.

A song for the broken / who fell and slipped.

It is now the fall / and yet it feels.

As if the Winter month / is already now:

Beware thee

Shadows, fallowing...

Burned willows fall.

One may live their life so strictly

As one falls into a dream so faintly

Wondering when those shadow will fade

Into some another hidden universe.

Perhaps one may hope soon,

But soon can be another century

And a half, depending on when the waiting

Begins, to rot you to the core.

Another decade, perhaps a century.

Between the buggies and the street cars,

Or the disease of consumption,

Or the disease of lessening vision. Ever still

Be my beating heart, wondering in the forest.

Wondering, at my behest.

No more shall the babies smiles,

No more shall the crypt shake the cradles.

No more shall the Winter be a burden still.

No more shall the notes on the tombstones,

Sing winter nursery rhymes.

Instead the crows call:

Beware thee

Shadows, fallowing...

Burned willows [email protected]@