I can't stand fighting, almost as much as I can't stand being wrong. To my cursing, one seems to always outweigh the other. I feel like a young oak fighting autumn to hold on to creeds long-brown on the branch. They shiver and shake in the mighty wielding of winter. There is no cure but dying - and except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone. The days of aloneness freeze in a moment of present that falls with the weight of a bad unexpectancy. The force could stop a speeding chariot, coming for to carry me home.
Must a day well spent end in death and questions? I struggle to sing out my lama sabachthani, when my circumstances scream homo sapiens, and I don't think there's really a cure sometimes, this side of my final tracks. She's still beautiful - always will be, never will stop. These tears I'm drinking get sweeter when there's less of me and more of Him. The days are here and move again, He still sees her like He always did - I'm glad He keeps that picture for me to see on humble occasion.