The older you start to grow,
your feet tend to show.
The bridge below your toes,
lets loose like an open window.
Straight to your blood flow,
the river that’s carried you down the road.

That’s just what my mother told me,
on how age is released.

The longer you let love go,
the more the heart begins to moan.
Slouching on the throne,
it sits and cries in a castle made of bone.
It wears the crown for show,
but the king has died off long ago.

That’s just what my mother told me,
on how love becomes deceased.

The mind is just a braid of rope,
once cut, it’s tiny strings unsewn.
Or a garden overgrown, or feet held by stronger feet of snow.
Deep in your throat doubt has traveled from your lungs,
to the lookout of your tongue.

That’s just what my mother told me,
on how to face a beast.

When you’re better off alone,
you isolate yourself in a wintercoat.
The clock moves through the cold,
you watch the hours come and go.
You write them slow, scrawling memories to stone.

That’s just what my mother told me,
all about songs and stories.