Up at the peak
Of the long mountain range
Sits my ego
Grey palette, no flowers grown.
Bare land is my mind
I let my rivers change their course
Just to wash yours into flood
Not knowing my flowers so dry and dead.

Sorry is such a weakening word
We're on our knees when that word reigns our mouth
We all let our pride eat
The possible moment of loving right.
And we'll wander through the lanes of none
When the night sky spreads
With no round...