The basin drains her polluted blood as wine envelopes morose
Every minute is a memory, onset of her blanketed comatose
Vying in a fog of icons and myths, words always fail them
From every misread evil that is disposed of improperly
From every neighbor or friend eternally mute again
From every gilded pattern that leaves a cuff for the eyes
From every fetching barroom, where all such nadir lies

There's a risk in every step
There's also very little choice
The feeling says it must be this way
The mind says turn around and go
The "normal" way
And less questionable
Fall into a familiar pattern
Or pretend to think for yourself
In the end the end is near
And we'll see each other soon
Here or beyond
Yet we fear
Yet so significant our path seems to be
Too important for some to risk
Too important for some
To go along the beaten path
Too important to feel the doubt
Too important to seek the truth
And that was planned too
Silly specs on a giant flying ball
Of dirt, rock and water

You are not a

What is it?

You are you-

Biddy you slept
In the crook
Of my legs.

She was gone.

Who are you