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England in 1819
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Alma
Wooden walls, a barn, seeded up in rows. Foxes' voices coming from the roost. What frightens you? What scares you? What feeble thoughts grow and mold in your mind, changing the steps you take, as your feet just gladly follow your eyes?
Everyday, it's the same rope that could save a broken climb up from peril, ends up under his chin.
He sleeps best, while doors left ajar, in secret hopes, someone reaches, go.
Pages found at first beneath a broken climber's floated feet, and now engraved in stone above. Opened, turning, I learned of everyday.
I've been on my own, taking it all in time, wondering where the light will come from.
And all this holding back, draws me up inside, dried from overuse, a well, my worry.
There's nothing quite as bad, as waking up everyday, seeing how the world goes on without you.
I just need someone, I could be the walking stick, you can choose the route, just take me along.
I've been on my own, fighting the waves at sea, I hopelessly shoot at an ever-changing foe, everyday.
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