Roosters Crow in the early morn.
The wind blows
Through the umbrella trees
That look as though
They so peacefully arose,
The shards of skin
From the battles of the night before
Along the deck of the porch
That Déjà has made her home.
A gust of wind appears and
Sends them soaring through her lands.
I’ve run through these fields.
Towards an abandoned cave,
Who doors were once found unlocked,
But now, locks shackle the entrance.
The birds from the nearby farm,
Back to The Works.