It is just nine thirty in the morning,
Yet the streets are composed of dreadful grey.
The sun swelled pallid before aborning,
Voices chant 'There's oceans to sail today'.

My pocket's are weighed down by slick gravel
That I've promised to sell once out at sea,
To the wishing wells that yearn to travel,
Without scattered minds billowed of debris.

Waters shape our nightmares out of paper,
Reviling pigments that ourselves we drew.
Waves harsh, I could only hope to tame her.
In end all passed, a paper cut for two.

At one time I lived as a wishing well,
Though it's stagnant waters I now repel.