• I remember putting on a white suit.
    It seems like so long ago
    that I received an invitation
    that invited me to go
    to a never ending party
    in a faraway place
    so I packed my bags and left
    and forgot to bring a map.

    I walked into a desert,
    and the sand blasted my skin
    I really can't recall
    where my journey I began.
    It's been an hour, two, or twelve,
    or a year, or half a dozen,
    my only company has been
    a single croaking buzzard.

    My footsteps, back behind me,
    fade by night and day,
    erasing all the memories
    my feet had made in clay.

    I stumble upon a mansion,
    white marble, lit by sun,
    but as I step into its garden
    I find my suit is gone,
    stained muddy by the piercing winds
    the sands of ages wrapped with sins
    torn asunder by the might
    of earth, and sun, and skin.

    I hope they'll let me enter,
    I'm thirsty, sore, and tired.
    Will all my hopes be answered?
    Will I be left to expire?

    I'm hoping that they'll open all the gates that kept me out,
    the walls that held us back demolished as the reaper counts,

    but without the walls to guard them,
    what will happen on the morrow?
    Maybe I should stay out,
    lest I cast a shroud of sorrow.
    I hope they can forgive me
    for how selfish I have been,
    but I need a drink of water
    or I'll shrivel down to skin.

    I guess I have one option left,
    since no one comes to call,
    maybe I'll sing and serenade
    the future's lone Desert Parade
    and hope that they can learn, despite my fall.