I walk upon the beach,
All bare about my feet,
The waves, they are so cold,
Like death, and still they fold,
With living tips of gold,
A hue that I can't hold.

I wish I were this ocean,
Dead inside, without emotion,
Able to move without the pain,
Without the tears to tarnish and stain,
The tip of gold that might remain,
If my heart still the same,

As I walk, the sun dips low,
And where goes gold, all gold goes,
I see the tips of gold have gone,
Without the sun, they're all alone,
In the darkness they crash and fold,
With nothing left but the cold.

As I wait for the sun to rise,
I found in me a great surprise,
As the waves crash and fold,
They speak to me in whispers cold,
And from everything that I'm told,
A dawn of yellow hue will hold,
So do not to wish for cold,
But instead, for tips of gold.

 
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