Like an old box, by a lamppost,
Soaked in the morning rain,
Like a tin can, discarded and misplaced,
Singing out its pain,
Like a newspaper, caught in a breeze,
That flutters from place to place,
Till it's caught in a tree,
Trapped within the branches,
With no means of escape.

Like a road, that leads nowhere,
And has nowhere to go,
Like a dried up stream, of yesteryear,
That will never again flow,
Like the weeds, that choke the soil,
Stealing away natures beauty,
Like the rusty broken leaves,
That fall from the dead tree,
When the cycle has no need to begin again,

Cause when the day is over,
The day is done,
And it is time to turn out the light.
To close the curtains,
Shut out the world,
And free yourself from the fight.
To leave the room,
Close the door,
And lie with the fallen.
Cause when the story ends,
The story is finished,
And the writer puts down the pen.