Emerson and Fuller,
Thoreau and Whitman,
Again and again, it has been written:
Nothing ever ends, death is no
Impasse;
So when you’re gone we’ll look for you,
In our Leaves Of Grass.

The victim in me is dead
But with the blood he’s bled
And the steps he’s tread
And the things they’ve said
Who is he now instead?

Take this pain, as a token
To trust the heart, is to be broken
The mind alone, sets you in motion

There’s still places, I’d like to see,
People I’d still really like to
be,

A hundredth chance; in theory,
I really love
humanity,

But there’s a voice, in my head,
And it says everyone wants you
dead,

It doesn’t matter, where you have
been,
Nobody gets to go home
again,

So what’s the point, no one will
tell,
They’d rather see you live in
hell

Patiently waiting
There, in the next world, where you
See all coming things.

Feeling warm again:
Clouds, making way for fresh light;
wheels will turn themselves