1992, I find myself alive.

In a house built high, by a man

Whose only joy had been his wife.

And when she died, she took with her the light within his eyes.

Leaving the cold remains of his golden, broken heart now fossilized.

And every week he’d buy a ticket, steady wishing.

In the face of hopelessness,

In spite of all his wisdom 

That he might win a lottery, by chance,

If he can’t join his redwood angel

In her counter-clockwise, bayou dance.
Jingling pocket change, by the kitchen sink,

Always whistling,

Always listening,

Forgiving my stupid mistakes.

But never came, for him, a lucky day.
He eased into that long night,


And when the Master’s Hand

Had laid its claim,

The man’s own heart attacked,

And laid to waste

A lover in his tribute, tried and true.

Now my father whistles with his baby, in the blue.

2005, we find ourselves in two.

Split clean, between Katrina’s wings,

And everything we knew.

And if you only care about the pains and strains you’re going through,

And you think we don’t understand, 

I promise you, we truly do.
In the lower room, a woman’s mind consumed 

By demons screaming, creeping

Through each phase of sallow moon.

But listen, it’s not all bad. The torture and the tears she shed 

Gave birth to something beautiful, and new.

In some ways, it’s the fear we met, and the years we’d bled, that guide my words to you.

Ghostly trips and forceful sips 

From a vanishing bottle of sauvignon blanc,

Denied the child, but suffered us the strength to face the dark.

2011, They find themselves free,

Everybody, except for me.

With the Dragon caged and the day seeming saved,

I gave in to a new set of chains.

Openly smoking dope, just zoning in and out for days.

Waking up naked in a musty tub

With my self-esteem down the drain.

But dig this,

The secret is, I never lost my faith,

The waves of pain just paved the way

For me to make a change.

So I dropped the habit,

Got back at it, the passion that made it move,

The earth, the vibe, the quiet times,

And before too long, a sacred truth.

That you don’t receive your definition

 By the cards you may be given

But instead, by the way you choose to play, and the virtue of your decisions.

So this is love, written for both the sweetest glory and sharpest pain.

This is love, and these are my people, these are the Cedar Folk Saints.

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