And it steps as it steps,
through the high grass fields.
And it weeps while it walks,
like it always will.
When it laughs,
when it cries,
it’s explosive.
And the burden,
gets a bit more implosive.

The stroll of it’s step,
says it’s drunk.
And the shine in it’s eye,
says it’s high.
The whisper in it’s words,
says it’s dreaming.
And the curve of it’s lips,
right at the tips,
says it’s scheming.

The way it goes on,
it’s delirious.
It’s drum is a beat,
walked on by feet,
that won’t do to be naught,
but mysterious.
The taste on it’s tongue,
says it’s displeased.
The fire of it’s wants,
says it won’t be appeased.

The steps of it‘s dance,
are contagious.
The sweep of it’s words,
advantageous.
As it walks through the high grass,
in a field never tilled.
And it rambles like a madman,
for it always will.
The madness in it’s mind,
says it’s seeing.
The high grass before,
when it was something more.
And the memory,
makes sure it keeps breathing.