(in which i place my ramblings on the table to be immediately eviscerated)
Ramblings the First
In the dead of night, ran Willow
Sprightly and hard to burn
As he dashed fast down the river road
Racing the water as it churned
Running past so many kingly estates
He met his mother at the fork
His breath abated by the cold
And the panic of her torch
Oh, son of mine, you'll run forever
How can you fear those who do not look
A fire burns in your tiny heart
Settling into the weak comfort of a ribbing nook
And she gestured at the cart
With oxen at the helm
And they pulled poor Willow into the night
Through rows and rows of elm
Beyond the gates, stood time itself
And apprenticeships with benefits
But he felt his father in every strike
As he became his own blacksmith
Sharper, sharper, oh destitute soul
You wither yourself in becoming steel
My son, your hurt defined you then
But that doesn't make it real
And he stood at the banks of the river,
And looked upstream as far as he could
To the land to which he had promised return
Knowing he never would
And his eyes ached with the effort
Of the tears he couldn't cry
With the knowledge that he'd been here miserable
As thousands of years went by
Tell me mother, you of the green
Who follows me wherever I go
Did you know your son was unfinished business
When you set him loose on the road
Tell me father, who burned the brush
Where you found me as a child
When I was not burned by your efforts
Did you know that I was wild
I have lived in these cities away from you
While the stars have countless gone around
A world where I knew that my hardships were secret
And that I should have put that damn torch out
Ramblings the First
In the dead of night, ran Willow
Sprightly and hard to burn
As he dashed fast down the river road
Racing the water as it churned
Running past so many kingly estates
He met his mother at the fork
His breath abated by the cold
And the panic of her torch
Oh, son of mine, you'll run forever
How can you fear those who do not look
A fire burns in your tiny heart
Settling into the weak comfort of a ribbing nook
And she gestured at the cart
With oxen at the helm
And they pulled poor Willow into the night
Through rows and rows of elm
Beyond the gates, stood time itself
And apprenticeships with benefits
But he felt his father in every strike
As he became his own blacksmith
Sharper, sharper, oh destitute soul
You wither yourself in becoming steel
My son, your hurt defined you then
But that doesn't make it real
And he stood at the banks of the river,
And looked upstream as far as he could
To the land to which he had promised return
Knowing he never would
And his eyes ached with the effort
Of the tears he couldn't cry
With the knowledge that he'd been here miserable
As thousands of years went by
Tell me mother, you of the green
Who follows me wherever I go
Did you know your son was unfinished business
When you set him loose on the road
Tell me father, who burned the brush
Where you found me as a child
When I was not burned by your efforts
Did you know that I was wild
I have lived in these cities away from you
While the stars have countless gone around
A world where I knew that my hardships were secret
And that I should have put that damn torch out