Like it never ends, it drives hard through me
on rotation with the seasons.
She is lovely though isn't she, dressed like such,
in her Elizabethan flesh and Cherokee soul.
She flutters, like a canary
lost in the confusion of a blizzard.
Like a flame in the fog, she lights the way
for the clouded soul and weary-eyed.
Where are you my silent voice?
When will we merge into completion?
Everyday hope is further lost and I wonder
to where my broken soul may find rest.
There is no rest.