I hear that whistle sounding,
somewhere down the line,
I see that carriage coming,
and I know I will be fine.
I feel the wind rupture,
cracks in my broken bones,
empty my coffin out,
I will not call it home.
Oh when we are alive,
they’ll take the markings from our skin,
all the old will pass,
and the new will march on in.
All along the harbor,
the boats untie their lines,
drift into the ocean,
adventure on their minds.
My christmas present from a really good friend. Very good book.
