Only time will tell when my cross
joins the thousands upon the side of this road
I've traveled a thousand times before
and a tousand more will follow
for tomorrow does not exist.

Rain upon my back is nothing
but a track to set thoughts into motion.
The kind of motion that steps in time and place
yet with a pace killing heart beats and silent speaks.

Black marks upon ourselves
we roll with thunderous hellhounds on our tails.
Forward is the only notion needed when
Death beats at the door with a
house warming gift fit for a losing king.

Those lost,
who had their youthful loom snipped
by the three shrews of fate;
their final hour dressed in thoughts of lavender
or gal,
now hangs in the form of a tear on the cheeks of loved ones
who won't accept the setting of another sun.

These White Crosses,
a sea of White Crosses,
a living testimony
of the dead in our wake.
May their names be writ in stone upon