Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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Winter sun shining above all the forest, a bird flies by.

Song birds singing of the forest melody, crickets sighing.

Spirits of the night calling for the raindrops, lonely voices stir.

Nightfall looming under the moonlight, wolves are howling.

Gravestone sits on the green hillside, a leaf decays.

Wooden shoe prints upon the sodden dirt, a leaf decays.

In the cottage a fireplace burns hot, dream life born.

Old hand me down skirts one may choose to wear, so adorn.

Within the dressing room, one may hold themselves to another standard.

Sensation for the hand so below the human threshold.

If one could feel the inner lusting like sorrow.

Then perhaps some they wont suck the marrow.

Deathly tomb rots a skeleton queen now resting silent.

Mme Marie lives for the funeral tap, tap dancing for roses.

With a boy in the hair, she violins till moonlight wanes.

The once true life of the girl washed down drain.

Perhaps a life is all that is now left, rotting so profane.@@