Burnt rock, burnt face, burnt locks, umber sunsets, in the rear view, city burns bright to be remembered, but the moon ablaze forgets worries and whatnots, so the legs remind you, and cramp and cave, in the nicest way, so you push to the top, knowing not when to give in, when to stop, you try to write now, while it's burning hot, but you know the best ideas come, when the cold in your hands is wrought, and winter lies heavy at your feet.