With storms of gold and silent pleas,
You're obviously neither with keys,
Nor art thou filled with hate for trees,
Without doubt art, of it you're a piece.
Long do the nights extend with fear,
Frightened you try not but seeps near,
To the point where anguish and tear,
Brim is it filled, my pleasant dear.
Fantasies, for it to be true if you wish,
I'd say you've asked for the wrong dish,
Instead hold the sky in mind but careful not to squish,
And wonder how far apart they are yet so close to ish.
