Two months and a minute till the end of time
Chores scraping off all my residue and grime
Can you feel the pain, oh, can you feel the sorrow?
I'm here at last, standing on this steep urge
Can I sleep past the hour in a woeful dirge
Will I abide to absence?

How can I sleep hearing the owl screech?
How can I stand with the red dirt beneath my feet?
How can I pretend that I don't miss it, the place
The one I had always called home . . . no more

They're tearing down my altar
Taking off the legs of my heritage
They're tearing down my altar
And no one whispers, "It's all right."

Two month and a minute till the end of time
Chores scraping off all my residue and grime
Can you feel the change, oh, can you hear the caw?
I cannot sort out, can't tell what I need
What I will want in spite of my own greed
I crave the dirt and roots from my wreckage

How can I sleep hearing the owl screech?
How can I stand with the red dirt beneath my feet?
How can I pretend that I don't miss it, the place
The one I had always called home . . . no more


Call me a dramatist. 9-15-06