There are things that weigh so heavy on my heart

the ten thousand pounds that I keep locked away

But now to play this old and steady part

the load grows greater by the day.

The pain is torn so fresh and new again,

like knives in the husk of an old scarecrow

just when I had thought to have reached the end,

and told a trusted one what I know.

The scorn was a knife tearing my flesh

my bones like wooden staves beneath

but carved away to bare scars afresh

by one to whome my soul I'd bequeath.

I see what others merely feel and sense,

to me the earth is a looking glass

but with this old, new gift I walk a fence

waiting for a storm to come roaring past.

So meet me by the river, the source of life

I'll find a way to you there, in the dark

past the horror of the terrible living strife

before the end has left it's despairing mark.