to paint a dream of yesterday,
bury your arms in mud-
the stories seep from skull to skin,
and spill out like a flood.
in between the there and now,
the sky, streaked purple, bows to pray,
for you to strip it bare, somehow
to then clothe the fading light of day,
with eternal golden morn-
we all cast spells for those days to stay-
those days we felt our souls reborn.
we beg morns like that- please, stay.