She wants 
the bristles of the pine tree 
to stab her in her dreams, 
awaken the fragrance of reality 
lonely as it seems. 

The silver moon leaks its light 
upon trees, 
drowning throughout 
the hour. 

She wants to hide there, 
for the winds race 
through the forests and 
towers, 
tearing her apart 
they never knew their power. 

She wants 
the morning dew, 
to fall upon her 
faded 
jacket. 
Drain the stains 
into the pockets. 

She wants, 
reality.