Ever forget who you were for a second?
That’s my trip, and I’m not trying to defend it.
I’m here to pay the price, it’s just the opposite.
By December’s end they’ll see,
This isn’t how I wanted it.
Now you should know that I’m the last to judge;
I’ve been cruel, and had my fill of blood.
But there’s a higher power, and it doesn’t seem to budge
Until my back’s against the wall, until I’m face down in the mud.
The right thing, what is that?
Stepping up or stepping back?
Giving into the direction of the wind,
Or running against the gust, in a desperate sprint?
What am I doing, acting like I don’t know better?
What happens when you put two “wrongs” together?
Steps backward into horror,
Where shadows run before they crawl.
Does it still count as racing the wind,
When you give in to the fall?