White lights have become my stars
Sheets the rolling hills
The two bedposts are strong oaks
And the whirring AC the wind
The window is there
Yet amounts to nothing
Just a view of grey rooftops
Grey, grey, grey
I've always been good at fantasy
But sometimes reality is just there
Cold, dark and ominous
Yet warm and bright as well
I must live for the days in the sun
The birds and the wind
The starry nights
The fresh air
The good times
Some things are too good to miss.
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