Our Meadow

Hello my dear love, are we going to our meadow?
   Where a flower's hue can spark the gentle gears,
   Where a rabbit can hop without a fox to fear;
      But why should the rest truly care?

Why should they care, since we are going to our meadow;
   Where a sun's slender ray is not hot in cold nips,
   Where water's nectar is not poisoned upon sips;
      At least I knew when you did care.
      
At least I knew, since we were going to our meadow;
  Where the people's peeps are silenced in the glaze,
  Where our cuddles embrace the grass's green laze;
     At least back when you used to care.

At least back when you cared for our meadow;
  When your smile showed grace in the rose-shaped grass,
  Like a church bell's bleak song upon Sunday mass;
     Before that change conveyed you don't care.

Before that change left love without hope for our meadow;
  Where our barriers of oak fell shards of green,
  Where the flower hues fall ground once keen;
     With the meadow in the end, I the one who'll still care.

I the one who'll still care for our dark depleted meadow;
  Where now a robin's tweet torn from a Vulture's call,
  Where a rose is now black for a Skeleton's ball;
     Where the grave shall be buried of when you did care.

But that grave shall raise hope of your return to our meadow;
  Where your hair shall return the life in the breeze,
  Where our cuddles shall show green in the grass and the trees;
     Where our memories shall live in the meadow where we care.