Taking the pen in hand Running hard on the sand Shouting loud or staying quiet Fighting with the inner riot
Crossing the ways Even the heathen prays As it was meant to be Even blind could see
Being born older Can't be much colder Laying me to waste Long enough I've chased
Tired now of walking Enough of the stalking I want to settle down Before I drown
Down the memories, confessions galore Of the blessed and of the wronged Sometimes rare or sometimes rife Till death takes away the life
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