November Lost

There seems little hope when the tires won't hold air. Did God forsake us somewhere, along the long and dusty path? you and I, got wires crossed in despair... left to suffer this day alone, in His wrath. Oh lord.. I carry my hammer low, lower still.. my nails all crooked, torn away from oaken boards. The back forty waylaid, in early dawn's frost. Still remembering strength.. that faltered, when all hope seemed lost. Don't tread on me heard once in the wind's voice. The plowshare's greying field, left forgotten and untilled, so little left of youth's free choice.