I guess I’m a living record of things that have passed.
A detailed picture of the world of the past.
A broken bottle, a bat smashing glass.
A labyrinth written out across a memory so vast.
Mom and Dad loved each other then,
Or before then.
Things changed, very fast.
I couldn’t conceive the coming ending,
Back when this nightmare was just begining,
They loved eachother, they were one then,
and they both lived and thought they would live again
the very next day, but things were different then.
One belongs to prison now, justice took him away.
The other belongs to God, or whoever’s up that way.
Maybe I could have changed it, I really don’t know,
They always say that picture is still in my eyes,
Those final words, that final fight,
But I don’t know.
Not many words are captured by ears
Four years old.