The stones on the windowsill looking out the window
　　It makes the whole room tilted to the cliff
　　The fish live in the wreck are ready to rot into the fishbone
　　Pieces were cut ax
　　Trees still do a practice green fingers
　　Still on the windowsill every storm
　　All the way into the house to rest
　　Like a stone cold light into your
　　Tilt to the starting point for the sea
　　You climb into a mollusk to be watched
　　Inadvertently tantamount to corpse
　　Crow pecking at any time may be
　　Glass magnified the threat of not saying anything
　　A gray eyes staring at your face and ignore you