Soft and warm and magiical
How many fools they burn
As if the chair would hold
Ties the tree so fancy free
Loosens upon the black soil
Your motives being questionable
As to arrive with purple creatures
All with hearts upon their pillows
To sweeze at fat of cotton
So then to observe
The new dimensional dungeon
If the walls of satin weave well
Will signs of life persist
Or to give death your wish
Flowers upwards spin
All the lights spin
Time grows thin.