Im a traveller,
In search of a light,
It seems like ages but I couldn't catch a sight.

I've been covered with the mud of  fear,
My legs have been sore of the sadness I wear.

Yet I'll walk,
until I uncover the light that I yearn,
until this life ceases to exist,
until this heart arise from the dead,
until the soul cleanses the dread.

I wrote something once.
I don't know where it came from,
or when it will come again.
I try so hard to put words on a page
so I can feel like myself,
but still they don't sound like me.

Words burn in my chest and
I can't spit them out.
Beer cools them, and so I drink it.
But the words go to my heart
and they squeeze and squeeze
and then I lose them.

They mean much to no one,
and not to me.
But left alone they squirm
and squeeze and shout
so I can't hear what they mean
or what I'm trying to think.

I can't get rid of them.

When I listen, they help.
When I don't, they burn.
I want to spit them all over,
so you can feel what they do to me.
But only if you're ready.

They're like worms, the words.
They eat, and sleep and breed,
and there's more of them.
And there'll be more tomorrow,
and if I can't get rid of them
they'll eat me alive.

When I put them on a page,
they stay still.
And then more come,
and I'll catch them too, hopefully.
Then they'll stay still
so you can see them.

The words.

Then comes the day...
cracks thrown across,  my gaunt old face;
and strength gives way...
these bones are tired, cannot keep pace.

What's that you say?
"How much time here?" "How did you place?"
I couldn't say...
but won't be long, finished this race.

And chunked to clay...
marble stone laid, runes carved on base;
then all will say...
I was called home, by the Lord's grace.