Wistful thinking in blue draped satin feelings of grace, tick-tock, on and on we drop to the resting place.
Born of fire and cooled by the world of temperance and temptation, we inward march, with or without invitation.
Secrets are never secret, we all can see the truth of the matter, yet when our backs are weak with weight, the rest can shatter.
Only by walking on the bed of nails can we ever find the path that leads to the garden, but the road has not always been kind, excuse me, beg please now my pardon.
Let me in I have been knocking as the clock ticks forever more, or at least can someone point me to the light that illuminates the way to my door…