We hold onto its magic ransom
Trample down the pink vines
Our palms sticky and spiteful
But also full of love
It is a dense day
We change our self to fit the dangerous thoughts
It is a fine tale
One of hope and longing
We strike up a band
Count cats in the afternoon
Hope for their tangerine tongues to kiss us
Rich rain peels though the night
Takes aim over the red bed
We are plural
Essential
Rich flames and steady breaths
The snow falls thick and fancy
We hold onto its magic ransom.
