Curl up, pull your legs to your chest.
Feel the spiteful wind weave through your tattered vest.
But close your eyes and dream away,
for cold, cold winds subside in May.
And when you dream, dream of me,
Dream that we're always meant to be.
And dream of flying past the stars,
on silver wings and not in cars.
Think of oceans and the open sky;
your imagination was always meant to fly.
Dream of the comfort, warmth and love,
Soft and gentle as a dove.
Dream of things you love and hold,
Think like that and you'll never grow old.
And the small smile that spreads across your face
Could beat back just about every mace.
But all too soon the shots ring out,
And everything starts to burn about.
Your high-flying dream runs away again
Just like people on a bullet train
A poem written by Blood Butteflies and posted with permission.