I pace among the masses while my legs keep me from home,
and a cloud of grey descends on a brok’n mans shoulders.
It’s not oft that I am left here standing on my own,
with haunting dreams of ‘wish I could have’ soldiers.
Wish I could, wish I may, wish it would have bin;
wishing that these dreams of mine were gone.
But that is not reality, a world I could have seen,
that is not the truth of my own bones.
I am a brok’n man with a grey and heavy cloud
resting on my brok’n, nothing soul.
And the grey gives truths I know a blanket of doubt,
endless dreams with ever-reaching goals.
__But in that cloud of grey, there will always be some light,
__as true as stars will always light the hopelessness of night.
© Blake Leitch September 25, 2013