shadows shift as the sun sets slowly
a memory is a fading story
i feel that i've knelt here before
running from those i adore


humming through a loop so strange
endless melodies that change
i cling to hope and will leave behind
old feelings bound to words
and the binding in my mind


and the way i told you off
and how i thought i knew so much
all the poetry and prose
as brittle as a dried rose
and an agony ago,
i lost count of the goodbyes.
i don't think that this ink is meant to dry


shadows sing as the sun sets slowly
about a present, past and lonely
but maybe now the woods align
if i lift my face and turn
it could finally be time


i know this haunted wood is mine
and a part of me remains
all the poetry and prose
as brittle as a dried rose


but now i know what brought me here,
(pass me by)
and now the spirits pass me by.
(think this ink)
i don't think that this ink-
(meant to dry)
the ink's not meant to dry


(yet to fall)
i know the night has yet to fall
(in it all)
i take comfort in it all
(it is time)
and it could finally be time
(have to find)
i have myself to find


it could finally be time
i have myself to find