There is a palace,
my dear,
And we live in it.
Past a shadowy apple orchard,
of long forgotten memories.
In the half-light
between the bright,
and the dark side of the moon.

Do you remember when we found it?
It was blackened,
charcoal crumbling.
Frozen in that moment,
when Time had caught his shirt
in a berry-juice dripping
bramble snare.

I'd like to think we laughed,
as fragile gray butterflies,
particles of ash,
fluttered to our hair.
But we fell to our knees and wept;
a moat for our dying palace.
And as the soot ran down our faces
it turned to purple teardrops,
because that was the color of sorrow.

I think you handed me the shovel,
because suddenly it was there.
The wood left splinters in our hands
and moon dust burned our throats,
but I think we didn't care.

At first we wondered why
we had even dared.
But the light within was glowing,
the gate we built was open,
our flag was rippling in a moonlight scented breeze.
And we could hardly see its purple,
beneath the gold that glittered there.

So meet me in our palace darling,
when the bell rings after school.
Remember not to eat the apples,
or stumble on a memory.
Instead lets eat the berries,
and mind the thorns of Time.
Yesterday we found that scrap of his shirt,
covered in purple charcoal,
a drop of berry blood,
and a sparkling silver sprinkle of moon glitter.
We threw it in our teardrop moat,
and this time, we laughed.

We laughed because we watched the water turn to gold.
We laughed because we love it here.
We laughed because this is our palace.
This is our palace,
my friend,
and we live in it.