Victory never seemed to be mine to have, and it always seemed to belong, and come to other men. It felt at times that my feats always had no history recording pen, and never happened. My years were spent like fool’s gold, feeling like they were my last. I also broke my back on the bottom’s rack with nothing left to boast, and instead wasted my years. Being much like on a ship I sailed lost out in the fog, a far distance from the coast.

Finding myself remembering back when I was young; in the spring I had a great thirst for standing proud and tall. And drank up all the summers that seemed to be full of wine, and then I fell right into the fall, and when winter’s cloak and chill descended with a vengeance it all proved to be a cruel and terrible hoax. With everything feeling as if I were just saying goodbye to me, as I stared into that mirror there on the shelf, with nothing left to say or lose.

Ending the game is like changing the words and name to a favorite song, so I filed all of those memories away and started to make my way down the line. Leaving all of my things behind hoping that things would one day be understood. Feeling as if I should just sit in the corner looking at the door crying.

But then again I have been counted out and seemed to have died a million times. With my heart not letting me give in, and having picked a form of culture well in the shape, and form of that Mangy Motley Crew.

As I stand here feeling confused with what I thought with something I had felt, and I also stand confused with what I feel with something that's real. I’ve stood at this door before; I'm told and caught up in this world afraid to lose control. The other night I considered trying to sell my soul, and what was funny is I knew he wouldn’t even take a bite. Well, I know one day my time will come and I will be sorry for what I've done, and it'll soon be time to go. And I see that cold graveyard in my dreams still, with there being a solitary stone standing there that's got my name on it.

Walking down the line, and viewing everything with that thousand-yard stare, and feeling as if I have been hollowed out from the inside. And knowing that guilt is not so loud when it’s coming out of a bottle. And it seems that nobody ever talks about beauty being lost and undone, but then again I have always known behind all things of beauty there is always some kind of pain.

And now the whole world seems to be sitting on a ticking bomb and the sun may never rise again with it not being a question of if, but when. Making me feel as if I were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, with there being no refuge found along with there also being no solid ground. Which has me assuming that the race I’m in can’t be won, so I need to find and keep the calm and carry on the best that I can.

I know that the silent war has begun, and I have been told that I don't wait to say goodbye, and that I am running out of time. I need you here but, all I seem to hear is the beating of a broken heart. And the future is like a piece of dying art that is just laying there in a ditch in the dark, and whatever you believe, it's easy to see that it don't care what side you're on.

As I find myself questioning myself at times about the death of my mother, wondering if I had on that last day before it happened if I told her I love her? I should have told her that I loved her, for a son needs to say it when he loves his mother. And how little do I know of the path of my father? Something he and I never bothered to find out from each other. And the rule usually is that a son and a father should always be talking. As I make my way on down the line in what feels like a time for final atonement. And the sea will mourn, and burn, with the sky beginning to fall when that ticking bomb that’s about ready to explode finally does.

Copyright Timberwolf International LTD: August 2015 - 8