In Reality, I suppose that the wind or the way
That the wind rustled the leaves in the old Bo-dock tree
Should have prepared me for all the damned mania
Followed by an intensifying stillness that stops your heart,

And causes your whole inner, overly confident of a soul
To abandon you for some ethereal, endless sea
In the Sky

But then again, whose to say we can really learn
from the didactic way that the leaves sway,
Other than some gargantuan ball of Light
Who illustrates the day, and fears the night,

And never requests a caveat for the sights to be seen,
And the dreams we've dreamed to see.