In a cold cream brick chapel,

That should've never been built,

Was buried a man who was ill understood.

Redeemed in the minutes just before he had died

Look away now, this is not where he lies.

 

The truth can be found deep in the woods,

Beyond the dampest and darkest of familial 'shoulds'

It's sound slithers, and wrenches and wriggles so fine,

To open the door to this singular time.

 

If this could be read when the breathen are gathered,

And the silent circling doubts of all have been scattered,

Into the winds of the past and cold future tense,

Which have blown this old man beyond his pretense.