Must Be the Season

The ghost it has him looking back but it shows him only shadows. Disguising all that may exist there within the confines of its illusions. And the ghost he asks of him is there really anything at all. And if so where are the tangibles. So the rider sits behind the wheel grinding out the miles hour after hour Listening to tunes on the radio that remind him of a t time that once was. And he—he may never know because the ghost; It lives in his mind forever asking are you so sure you yourself are even real? Who can say anymore with any true conviction? In spite of all the raw memorized emotions caused by love or despair back then. There seem only repeaters and story tellers left everything else; Seems to have simply slipped into the dark of night that always comes falling And while death with his crocked finger points a demanding hand; Claiming neither need for explanation appropriate nor point of pleas given. With its wicked withering it sways to augmented lyrics that repeat the words; “And it’s strange, so very- very strange”