The Other Dale

His palms lie cracked and open,
stretching wide into pillars broken;
a body he possesses in sorrow,
and pass it shall afore the morrow;
"Goodnight, sweet earth...", he sings.

Behind him there is a path;
crumbling it lies, the aftermath
of toiling brown earth, tilling gray fields,
and losing faith in all that he feels;
"I turned from you...", he sings.

The world was younger in that day,
and all good things were built to stay;
that is, until he trod down to
the road that belonged to him, he knew;
"In you, I sought my worth...", he sings.

All ways are wearily made,
when only shadows cast their aid;
appreciation is a long lost lullaby,
that none can see against the darkened sky;
"you turned from me...", he sings.

He stumbled then, with fragile heart,
as he turned in vain to tear apart
from the lonely road he'd tarried down,
and saw now weeds upon the ground;
"Prideful, I beget a withered tree...", he sings.

As he sinks into endless dream,
in final thoughts his aged opals gleam;
for at the peak of all distress,
a holy hand pulled him from duress;
"I rose in birth...", he sings.

Time, he is ne'er a friend to those who find,
that what one seeks is not behind;
for knowing came at break of death,
to him who had no mornings left;
"...and found lofty sleep...", he sings.

Gray stalks of lash fall like high cascade,
and paling lips, they split and quake;
he reaches up, the weary man,
and once again lets down his hand;
"here they come to lay me deep...", he sings.

The road is long, and always bends,
until it clashes with the end;
and the man's last breath in quiet calm,
lets go all that which broke his palm.
"...goodnight...", he sings.