Very nice Laurie, tell your husband "thanks for sharing".
This is the most recent song I've written.
6/2/04
The whispers of some twenty years, still ringing in my head.
The only voice that weaves through them, is the one that wants me dead.
A canticle for this fallen son, now weeping for his bed,
What little bit of hope remains, clings on just by a thread.
Ghosts of pain that I have wrought, dancing on and on inside my head.
Dirges drone on silently for a life that now seems dead.
Well I could be a carpenter, working wood with my hands?
Or maybe still a farmer who brings his fruit forth from the land?
Better yet, my fathers trade, broken down and weary back?
How to be a teacher with all the humanity that I lack?
Couldn't You please write on the wall?
Or speak to me through an ass?
This resembles a crucial hearing test,
that I fear I cannot pass.
The whispers of some thirty years, still mourning in my head.
Two voices strive to win my ear, and one of them wants me dead.
A canticle for this fallen son, now crying for his bed.
The tattered ends of hopes remains, cling on still by a thread.
Well I could be a carpenter, working wood with my hands?
Or maybe still a farmer who reaps his harvest from the land?
Better yet, my fathers trade, crippled hands and weary back?
You said to be a teacher once, but understanding still I lack.
Ghosts of pain that I have wrought, dance feverishly in my head.
Dirges droning silently for my flesh that now seems dead.