I see the rusted windmill turning.
Nobody's happy, everyone's counting.

I grow tired.

I set into the creek my bare feet.
It's too cold, it's too wet; this isn't for me.

The broken boards of the porch where no one's standing,
The views forgotten from the withered bridge left standing.

I grow tired.

And the leaves of a tree where friends were made,
The longer I stare the colors will fade.

The stars are too far to  be conceived in the mind,
The plans made beneath them, never quite right.

Fore bearers debate over who is to blame,
The women forge no path and show no shame.

I grow tired.

Unkempt barbed wire represents a divide,
No reason to cross with plans brushed aside.

Outside there's knocking: to stifle and hide,
Or pull the curtains asunder and let in the light.

I harden my mind, trade myself for a cure,
An empty wish to trade my losses for hers.

The wind moves against me, I fall from my feet,
I've read to the west there's more to see.

I grow tired...