I tried to do a painting, but I'd worn out, all my brushes.
And I tried to stop complaining, about my pain and, about my crutches.
The early morning's draining all, the sane from, without my body.
And I never knew restraint, like a saint, without a crux does.
I heard your wavering voice, at the end of the telephone, line.
Well I'd prefer if this choice, didnt mean, the bending of time.
The early morning's chorus, is mending, the cracks in this smile.
And the words of a friend forces me, to send you, a piece of my mind.
I tried to play guitar, but the strings all broke, one by one.
If I could have arrived earlier, theres some things that, I should have done.
Instead I bribed and bartered, and I sang at, the top of my lungs
To the tune of a martyr, who is saving, only the sun.
Is this what they mean by faith, to walk and, to follow blindly?
To stumble through the dream, and then to, suddenly find you?
The early morning streams, of sunlight, reminds me.
That it seems the same, whether we talk in, words or silence.
I know here lately, its rare we, are even sober.
But Rebecca, is there a way, to start over?
I found it strange, when the lust lead, into laughter.
And Rebecca, is this just, another chapter?
This morning it's cold outside, too cold, to wander out.
But I thought that you should know, what I am, pondering about.
I know here lately, that things have gotten, complicated.
But Rebecca there is no, debating I am, waiting it out.