Further on up the road is a place where I will lay my weary head.
The road is short now; I can see a shattered town.
Behind me I have left a long trail,
Of a garden life that’s become overgrown.
Searching for a lap to call my own,
A stroke of hair, I look up and the struggle is nearly over
A few more miles, nearly there,
And at my side turns tumble weed, and a wicker basket
Weaved from lies; before me a pillow wrapped in a black case,
Hands of comfort in a black lace tumble down town
And all my thoughts are in death….a last breath, a final
Prayer an, apology;
Fate please marry me I say on one knee,
For I am sorry, sorry, so sorry,
For messing things up.