There is no telling when the clocks stop; the anger surges under the World that shifts forward and turns around in Hell.
Heaven awaits as the gates open to her gaze; the one with the eclipsed eyes that speak of miracles in their understated ways.
The trip and the folly, the tempered veins; the pricks and the jolly, the stacked houses, divided; a plague on both.
The seasons come and go and wander North and South. The East and the West are mine, taking me under the Sun that encircles the Earth, bringing light to the ties that bind.
We speak of the passion and drive that we hold most dear; the ones that fall upon troubled, deaf ears.
We divide lines down the middle to determine what we won’t settle for, when what lies between is what really brings us forth.
In between the lines is where we will rest our hearts, in a field between wrongdoing and rightdoing.
I will meet you there.
That’s my line and that’s my cross, to bare for all to see; I carry it day in and day out just for you and for me.