Closure, the hunter no longer over your shoulder,
fixing you in his steely sights,
last rites put on hold,
too tightly rolled,
sold on and scrapped
to take red back to black
and get back to the track at last.
What's past is past,
what's you is new and yet somehow you still knew.. all along
it can't ever be wrong
cos wrong's just a song sung to the need to be right
when your wound up too tightly, it might be
that this time you will tread even more lightly.
It's tough but you're growing
the cold winter owing spring late in the sewing.
Maybe they wont pick up your trail,
fail to pick up the scent of a day spent running
just to pay rent
but it's here for the taking,
a day in the making with nothing to pay.
You worked hard for today.
You worked hard in your own way.
A way deep inside.
The steeper the ride the straighter and true.
Asleep beside the way to break through wouldn't do
but you're wide eyed too
resolute and keen
to cross lines drawn by men in machines
who's dreams leaked out slowly and steady.
We grow when we're ready.