I'm growing old.
God don't plant in straight rows,
And weeds won't hear my temperate pleas.
But harvest comes, wailing like a freight train.
I thrive in the ghost town I built.
Regret crowds the crosswalks.
I wait for you.
Hurry.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
I'm growing old.
God don't plant in straight rows,
And weeds won't hear my temperate pleas.
But harvest comes, wailing like a freight train.
I thrive in the ghost town I built.
Regret crowds the crosswalks.
I wait for you.
Hurry.