She's lying inside her own world,
on the floor of an earthy ocean,
hidden in the antique wheat fields,
dazing into the storm brewing overhead.
Waves of wind gallops through the golden rows.
Loco-motions of fury and rage grows and grows,
screaming songs to the daydreaming maiden.
Her reality drifting away,
slipping away from her like the string tied to a balloon,
traveling upward like a moth to a flame,
carrying away with it her soul.
She wears a Victorian-style dress,
thinking of how she would look from the angle of a treetop;
Perhaps like a painting, drying on an easel,
In the blurry distance, on an impressionistic hill,
no longer interested in what happens next.
Oh! how she's like a painting, waiting for the rain to fall...