My father's stories fell upon us,
filled us with his light.

Gospels, fertile minds,
taking root, taking root.

His pocket change would jingle,
sacramental bells,

heads tucked low,
sneaking peaks, sneaking peaks.

And the rain comes down,
it's dark, and the browns
begin to bite.
Here you will always be,
behind me, and you will not go away.

There he sleeps, an untamed land,
dark corners yet discovered,

his heart yet to be
trod upon, trod upon.

I can't bare to hear his breathing
simply knowing what's to come.

I can't bare to hear your breathing

knowing what's to come.