the last they spoke he said it all
he said his back was to the wall
and far from being her best friend
a man who'd rather see it end
she just can't argue with his truth
it's not her way, for in her youth
she dreamed of places, not pretend
big open spaces, where they'd spend,
in long embraces, hours on end
through fields he chases lifelong friend
but that's not how her story goes,
she won't reaping what he sows.
Born at night, but not last night
I see the problem with her plight
she wants to make the pieces fit
complete the scene her mind has writ
but forcing love to take it's place
to glue the pieces down, a waste
just take a picture, make it last
'cause that one will be fading fast
Let him go and shut the door
Sow true love and reap far more.
the last we spoke I said it all
my tendency to blame the fall
and all the angst scorned love could spare
on fires of Hell, which can't compare
how well I argue with the truth
it's been that way since troubled youth
I dreamed of forests, not pretend
of wooded hollows with my friend
where trees grew tall but wind could bend
where fires could rage but love would send
the rain which hastens souls to mend
that's not my story, so, The End.
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