I write things that feel right
But often the memories don't line up
I wonder why
In dreams my life speaks
Of horrors and pleasant things
Gripping a rifle at the bottom of a hole
Buttoning a child's coat when she's cold
A secret life that isn't mine
Yet is just as real as tonight
I wonder why
These memories are in my mind
I write of many lives
And I'm starting to think all are mine.