I wrote my letters with blue ink, locked the door and shut the blinds,
the last of candles burned down to the bottom of its jar
and worn out pages still rebel from a Bible that we’ve owned,
Steve passed away last night and the floor got cold,
all that’s left to save are laughter and three paintings on a wall…

I’ve been too young, my hands weak and my heart unsteady,
I’ve let the fire wildly spread and wreak our covered beds,
the jury did not charge but ash is all that do remain –
October roads of painful slow, no one knows where they go,
and blue rain starts falling from the diamond skies above…