A field of yellow flowers was our world.

An oak with leaves of orange was our sky.

We carelessly watched the earth as it twirled,

And shunned the truth in favor of our lie.

We did not know the road to take us home,

Though, if we did, we would not wish to leave.

So in that field of flowers we did roam,

The air so hot it burned our throats to breathe.

Then cool winds stripped dark limbs bare – seasons passed.

We thought that youth would linger if we stayed.

But the illusion would refuse to last;

The movement of life could not be delayed.

We must depart this place that once was ours,