When people die we sleep in graves—
Where do memories go when they die?
To the same place where broken dreams go?
Where the sky is dark:
no up, no down, no before, no after?
To the land of could-have-beens,
Where lost souls wander, where the deathless cry?
Or to a land beneath a lilac sky,
To some sweet place in a far green country,
by a river at the edge of night?
Where the crownless are king,
And the wingless fly?
If only we could freeze time, capture a single moment,
Like a dew on a green leaf,
Like a winter flower that blooms every twenty years,
That dies ere the sun rises again.
Instead we must endure:
Growing up too fast, pretending to be men,
Fly on and on like a bird born without legs.
Slave a lifetime for a single dollar—
Go screaming into the good night,
Burn out like a falling star.
The traveller comes home,
The wanderer returns—
But reality is not a book.
When you go back, be prepared:
For sad eyes and gravesides and greying hair.
For those who’re gone, for those who were never here,
For crayons lost and empty chairs,
For keys that don’t fit and slamming doors.
Those you’ve left behind, and those who stopped waiting…
Those still waiting for you,
and those you’re still waiting for.
Across the skies
The Angel fell
— The End —