Come late august when they burn the fields.

The smoke distorts the sky .

A haze of purple and pink as the sun says goodbye .

The moon appears in that post harvest sky .


I see the same look on  your face .

It’s pretty certain that you’ve lost the taste .

What once was sweet now crimps you’re face .

Things we shared are now out of place .


You burned my fields and you had a reason .

The season fit in right  with your plan .

One month earlier and you’d have lost command .

Now the sky’s full of your pastel  ? hues .

Your peasants think it’s quite the view .


Seasons change or so you say .

Catch the borders and hide away .

The cover blends your anger and you don’t need to pay .

Use the timing to hide your soul away .

One day you’ll uncover in the light of day .


Oh you’re not angry and it’s all on me .

I’m the guy who won’t let it be .

Let dead dogs lie .... what does that mean .

That’s a horrid visual , turnsî my soul green .

Once you were the best  I’d ever seen .


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