Pieces of worn and tattered lace.
Letters and cards filling empty space.
Faded pictures of moments past.
Relics from a time that could not last.
Sacred memorials built in vain.
Like chasing rainbows throught the rain.
Now silent ruins to loves pain.
Where only relics remain.
The future is in the past.
Seen as reflections in broken glass.
A place where treasured memories are cast.
Desires for a life that did not last.
All things must pass.
Like leaves among the autumn grass.
Marching bands of rusted brass.
A messiah's requiem mass.
And relics of dreams past.
A life lived.
Filled like pages in a book.
A book all too short.
A book we must write.
Bugles blare from morning's fog.
They pay The Garrey Owen.
In the snows of the cold moons they play.
Play for the son of the Morning Star.