Fields of Grass

This place is my woren glove torn to my fit stained to my liking fire, bleeding into my palms numbers that crawl through my mind as I see to hold... Fields of grass that grow to weeds fields of dreams that turn to dust fields of nightmares that come true fields of flowers that turn to graves fields of grass that grow for fire... This palace I have formed in this place now lays to sleep from pill to pill we can see the past from the future now we save ourselfs from the flowing rivers