Sometimes it's hard to walk. Like I've tied both laces together, with my shuffling steps echoing down the hall.
There was a time- the echo was in four, not two. Bravely together, I remember fighting back the feeling.
Then the preacher came, told us words; shoved them down our throats. Dragged you into fake lights.
I resisted, I knew what they could do to us; would do to us. But you never listened to me. You were a loner- a rebel like your Mother.
It's a weird, weird world; passion means nothing in the mire. When you think you've flown out, into auburn lit skies and towards better days; the rope reaches as far as it can extend, and you must watch yourself hang above the streetlights, and below the stars.
You can scream, "But I love her" as loud as lungs can carry. You could give a final death throw, like a horse that has been shot twitching in the dirt. But it would be so much easier, so much better to numb the pain.
You can scream, "And I love her" as loud as a semi barreling past; but you know, like fire it comes to flicker until it burns low. It would be so much easier, so much less chaotic to extinguish the candle.
But then you wouldn't be a rebel, like your Mother.