take, take me down to the bejewelled fields where the roses and the lilies grow, where the sky is a shattered blue mirror among the white of clouded scape. where the bumble bees carve lazy arcs through the sick sweet air and the suns's so bright, we cast no shadow. and we will drink a poison draught and no longer have to feel the thorns or the sting, and the light won't reflect the void in my eyes. the birds will go right on singing their sonatas of whistling wild winged hearts. we can lay our heads here and the heather can be our rest. and the emerald grass can grow sweet and wild over these empty vessels which love has left alone and useless.