Forty-five oranges buried in a tree

It's a cool field of green
and a world where lying is forbode
In chains that hold and home us
in hell where cold meets furnace
it's the impossible that's possible
and the real that never hap'd
only babies feel the tremble
in their tiny toes
as that bit of life we had left
drains away as apathy
and what we had worth living for
is worthless now, sold for nowt
and the cold replaces the furnace
being chained to it
reigned to it
held to it and
drawn to it
we chant and breathe
and wild-eye dance
around the last flame
of the everlasting never
i'm taken by the moment
and i say 'i'm still alive'
and eyes widen
blanched hands back away
and they come to take me away
but seeing never's coming
it doesn't matter anyway.