The morning crawls
Though the sunlit stage
And slips into the dusk
The mornings slip
To ink blotched memory
Dripping though the staging's cracks

What if this is memory?
A musky string of history?
And what if stage right and if stage left were one?

I walk on the mountain high sky
And I wish all my friends goodbye
As I trek the heavens to find a soul
That will with all my flaws comply.