Sands sweep past vinyard leaves, held between wake and dreams. Planting future seeds, to sprout sunflowers among the reeds. A step away and in-between, held between wake and dreams. Where logic to fiction is as fiction to logic. A River bends it's being with the setting sun, to form a oxbow in likeness of the crescent moon. Bring me exotic flowers unique in fame, so strung up my head could frame. An endless sea lies beyond, past the setting sun. The new world, your creation to fund. Paint the grass, a sprig a day. Fleeting yet stronger than glass. So in the wind they might sway. That come another day, you might smell the grass, and taste the bittersweet dew. Before you start yet another day anew.