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 .