I lay here thinking, wondering what will it come of. I lay here looking to the future and the past, wondering how to alter the present to make the good things last. I ask for help, a sign, an answer. I question my resolve, doubt my thirst, my soul is a cancer. When all is dead, the outside barren because the soil is dry, when all has wilted and gone because the earth is parched and robbed, I will be the dry corpse, the filthy feint of a dream lost, a nightmare realized and a death's shadow walking. Can't the end be troubled no more by the occurrences of the present. Why won't will in of itself steer the course of this storm tossed vessel. Skies clear, clouds lighten, I beckon the bright, warm sun. Calm this startled, splintered heart for no more can it hold these heavy things. Brittle and broken this bony man be and may the end of this drought come quickly to me.