Saturday, December 31, 2005

The end of one year ...

[Three short poems, for short attention spans I gift them. Please go diagnose yourself with ADD now. You will be doing the Great Machine a favour to be fixed. Thank you.]

This is the way we are
Watching rain fall from the inside
Never getting wet

The cut that heals is a wound never dealt.
The dream that dies was never dreamt.
The star that falls knows only how to burn.
It is only for things unseen that we yearn.

We are all haunted by our ghosts,
Self-created constructs only real
By the light of dualities. We orbit
Through them, pretending we’re alive;
Giving them meaning as our cries break
On the vast shore of wakefulness.

Friday, December 30, 2005

December 30th Poems

Unjustifiable actions are always supported by reasons:
The way you scream me into silence each night,
How you leave me without warmth in the darkest of seasons.
You say I am your friend yet you always curse and yell.
I warned you about the stranger on your land, and
You told me to stop barking or I’d wake someone.
Please, I think I am not understanding something vital;
Like a bone buried too deep to dig at, I do not understand.
I do not understand. I wonder why.

Service Appointment

The car company sent a letter
Telling me just what was the matter
With my car. Inspections of filter
And oil and brakes for her.
After all of that, I must confess
It sounded like she was a wee bit messed.
But then they added an inspection
For something odd to be detectin’.
They want to inspect “peace of mind”.
I’ll be amazed if any they find.

[The latter poem actually came out of a letter regarding a service appointment for my mom's car that included oil, filters, brakes, and a "peace of mind inspection". Youse uses whatever inspiration youse finds ...]

Thursday, December 29, 2005

December 29th Poem

Walking To The Sea
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod

We may return or keep on going
Just start walking and never stop
Because some men are done with doing
And of finding cracks to hop

Sometime we’ll break our mothers backs
And won’t care now no more
We’ll walk ‘lone down different tracks
And open brand new doors.

And the sky is above the sea
And we are all sailing free
And the wind always blows
But do you suppose
It blows for you and me?

We’ve been on this road so very long
Though we first stepped out today
And we made it a song even if we did wrong
And though we had words to say.

The birds are flying above our heads, and
The stars, they fill the sky
And while we’re alive, not halfway dead
We’ll never sit down and die.

We’ll keep on going and walk the road
However lonely it can be
We won’t be bending under heavy loads
And one day will reach the sea.

And the sky is above the sea
And we are all sailing free
And the wind always blows
But do you suppose
It blows for you and me?

We’ll go ‘til we drop, dance ‘til we fall
We’ll walk a road or seven
And if the way takes us straight down to Hell
We know we can turn off to Heaven.

And we’ll walk because we have begun
And because we have to finish
And we’ll only know if we’ve ever done
When we die or when we vanish

And the sky is above the sea
And we are all sailing free
And the wind always blows
But do you suppose
It blows for you and me?

So if you don’t hear from me
Not now, and not again
You can assume I’ve reached the sea
And won’t come back again.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Four Short Poems For The End of December

[Clearing the backlog of poems I wrote this month, effectively. Shall post one longer poem tomorrow and some small ones the next two days.]

We are dreamers
     In the shadows
Where we don’t
     Yet have names.
Wandering through streams
     That only go
Where we want
     When naught remains.
The oceans seems
     To always know
Why some won’t
     Play this game.

And wisdom is
     Watching the sea
Then knowing why
     Nothing real remains.
All of this
     Just cannot be
Why storm-clouds cry;
     Hence my refrain:
The first kiss
     Made all Be
Not to die
     Alone in pain.

be un ing

And is there no enlightenment within
The confines of birth and death?
Just solitudes of mystery and uncertainty:
Breath inside and outside - but beyond?
There is being, but from unbeing
We stay away, hoping life brings
Be-ing past life and into silence
Sings change and a new beginning.

And sometimes with longing I yearn
For the peace of dales and valleys,
Hills drenched in sunlight, soaking
In dew, and I forget I don’t remember
Bounding outside to cavort and to play
While longing for the noise of the TV.

Spent magics are gathered about me,
Dreams of a more exotic age.
Gloves flutter free in the wind;
Children point and gasp at how
I thrust my arms into sympathetic fires long ago.
For a single moment, haloed
In the light of a passing vehicle,
Someone wonders, “What if?”
And inside something stirs, briefly, embers from ashes.
I remember too much, but not
Enough to turn wondering to wonder.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Attempted Song Lyrics

And We Danced
(December 2005)

There was a night a long time past
When the spring formal was held,
The rain had come upon us at last
And a full hundred trees were felled

Amid the falling of the forest trees
And the shaking of the mansion eves,
Omens in the air and far too cold a breeze
We said we’d dance and we’d never leave

It was the first dance of the newborn year
And we vowed we’d see it through,
Armed with drinks and food for fears
We were strong though we were few

And we danced with the living and we danced with the dead
The storm kept on giving but we never ever fled
Some were singing, some were libbing, some were hurt and some were wed
But we danced with chance and all came out ahead. Hey!

We said: We’ll dance ‘til the dawn
long as there’s music’s in the air
And the beer ain’t yet all gone
We’ll dance and we won’t care

As night fled it’s way back into day
The dead shambled to their graves
The living has no songs left to say,
Nothing to do or say or save

But came the next year we took a chance
And we got together under the starry night
And we sang and we drank and we danced
And we waited for the dawn’s first light

And we danced with the living and we danced with the dead
The storm kept on giving but we never ever fled
Some were singing, some were libbing, some were hurt and some were wed
But we danced with chance and all came out ahead. Hey!

Frost Poem (For winter, y' know?)

Whose woods these are I'm sure I know
I passed his no trespassing sign like so
He will not see me slinking here
To steal a tree as falls the snow.

Monday, December 26, 2005

4 Poems on Boxing Day.,..

.... that have nothing to do with boxing. Ah well.

Perfection is
Imperfection, constantly
Changing, becoming
Strange, this

Nameless, we are one.
At peace, we are nothing.
Whole, we are unblemished.
Oh! For a name! A
division from the All,
The illusion of the I
Opens, offering only change.

People who keep a tally of the dead
Are not fit to stand among the living.
Each day the body counts rise higher
And our shadows grow dimmer.
False sympathy braids to false hope
In the spectral TV voice.
“Not your Son --Daughter --Father --Wife --Sister --Brother
Not you. Not yet.”

I need someone else to blame,
Someone else to take this shame.
It’s to hard to bear alone
And I’ve plum ran out of home.

I tried to love you, I wasn’t good enough:
Said I’d be true, but didn’t have enough stuff.

I’m told there’s new fish to discover:
Will someone wake me when the hurtin’s over?
I tried, too hard, to be
The kind of man you wanted to see.

But you said no, though I should see
Should just know that we could never be.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Suggest A Topic Thread #1

An idea I had earlier. Comment here with suggested topic/themes, and I may cover them. No guarentees, but as the first approaches I realize that I am likely to run out of ideas for poems during the space of an entire here. So, toss up suggestions. They ca be as normal or weird as you want. I've written about everything from urinal cakes to necrophillia, from life in cities to nature treks. So suggest. Now :p

Merry Christmas: a Poem about the Bishop of Myra

The bones of the Bishop were rotting
In the cold, still earth
Waiting for the final days
And a miracle of rebirth.

His body was taken from the ground
Magic bones for the masses:
St. Nick in your stocking
The way of Christmas’ Past.

His bones ended nestled in a church
Endowed with magic power
But not a source of Christmas cheer
No matter what the hour.

His bones were commercialized
Shades of Christmases to be
So! a toast to grave robbers
And to a saints memory!

Saturday, December 24, 2005


In my father’s house,
there are many mansions.
Some don’t have heat. Some are cold.
A few have whores who are discreet.
There is sex for sale, and souls, and love.
And everything you can think of,
in my father’s house.

I have yet to find the servants quarters.
But I am sure they exist, little holes
crewed by gentiles. My father
laughs when I mention this idea.
I ask my uncle, Satan, in the whore house
with his five cocks dangling
just out of his reach with Onan smirking, and
he just smiled, and looks a little sad.

I am walking through the mansion.
It is very cold here, in the mansion.
I am looking for my wing, for my rooms.
I am only finding empty rooms, or ones
with furniture covered in plastic. In another,
an orgy of people covered in plastic greets me.
I turn away, looking for my rooms, looking for a guide.
It is very quiet, and no one answers me.
I wonder, in the scared core of my soul, if this is Hell
and I am all alone. I ask, “have you forsaken me?”
And get silence in reply, only my voice is here,
the little one inside, the devil saying:
“you have forsaken yourself.”

I want to go home now. Or find a door for my keys.
I am dragging them behind me with rocks, when I
am aware of them. I am so tired. So tired. I want to sleep.
I want to sleep.

It's just before xmas, and these poems have nothing to do with it

4 poems, written on a bus during a storm

You speak of failure yet you jest
For your world failed me first.
You speak of duty’s obligations
But not its subjugation.
Your words are honeyed in dew
But somehow all the colder too.

The windows are covered in rain, and the sky
Is darkly pale, devoid of shapes or meanings.
Even those who walk between raindrops
Cannot help but be touched by the rain.
Uncomfortable people huddle in the shelter of cold clothes.
The damp warps them, hunched like wood.
In miserable impatience scurrying.

We go too far when we forget
How far is left to go.
Obscured by rain
The world has grown
Dark and dangerous.
But every blurred light
Becomes a star
And rain, we know
Can end in bows.

The wonder of the imperfection of it all
We have nothing left to stand on at all:
The only gift given us is to fall;
Babies to tits we cling to the wall.

Friday, December 23, 2005

I’m waiting, listening for a sound.
I’m lost only if I don’t want to be found.
And I tried to say I loved you
But words don’t mean it’s true.
I feel like a caged songbird
Full of music but no words
There’s so much I have to say
I should have begun yesterday.

But now that we’re here
The words won’t come
If only all our fears
Could come undone

Like a monster in a cage
I feel like I’m on a stage
We’re both trapped by darkness
And private, lonely madness.
Only the echo of the song
Keeps going on and on,
Left with just a memory
Of what we used to be.

And now that we’re here
With throats stricken dumb
My eyes won’t shed your tears
And we’ve both come undone.

pedestrian poetry     scrawl
of graffiti upon
bricked walls     memories
in spray paint screams
longing for permanency

empty eyes watch
walls painted over white
legacies vandalized from
the world     messages
undeciphered     but
no one every says
a single word.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

A Technical Note

Due to the fun of trying to FIND housing, I may end up posting the first 3 weeks of so of January in one fell swoop, with the posts set to post on each day as poems from, well, December most likely since I am likely to end up moving on the 1st, and getting net access may be a little dicey for the start of the year.

A few (4) more December Poems


Borderline civilizations
are where they feel
compelled to cover up
hatred and the blood
with words and laws
and the electric chair.

I bought true love
On e-bay, only
To have it lost in the mail.
I wish I had insured it.
But am glad, in some way,
that it could not be insured.

In the mire of uncertainty,
Of particle and wave,
Only this, alone, is real:
I am your willing slave.

And thro’ all life’s sorrows,
In certitude of pain,
You remind me that rainbows
Always follow upon rain.

I thought you a star
Fallen from the sky
Not some lowly meteor
Found inside a crater.

But your heart turned out
To be made from stone
I wished, you streaked ‘cross
The sky, leaving me with less.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Lyrics For a Country Love Song

(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod

I’ve got a heart full of tears and a head full of flame
Eyes filled with tears and a bullet for your brain
Someone gave me the gun, coulda been anyone
Even though I know, I know I know this won’t end the pain
I have to go and see you one more time, once again
And maybe I will come undone cuz God knows anyone
Would have done the same if you’d left them on that night
I need someone to blame and I’m itching for a fight

So you’re going to die for all the times you said you loved me
And if I’m strong I won’t cry when they come to take me
Maybe I’ll rot in jail, maybe in hell but I can’t tell
I only know I loved you so much that I had to break
Cuz this hate for you is something new and kinda hard to take
It’s too hard to bear that you don’t care won’t meet my stare
Down the barrel of my gun and atone. So you have to die, as I explained
To you and will to everyone because I can’t carry the pain alone.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Two Poems

Names of

Fearing whom I love I find my way,
Trusting instincts only to betray.
Who was I, to be born
For a hope of which I’m shorn?
Searching for uncommon ground
In our speech without sound
I find I want to tell you of
The varied names for love
But it seems that, once again,
The ones I know all end in pain.

There is a tourist store

There is a tourist store
Where we buy them
And give them cameras
To take with their silly clothes.
We tag them and follow them
To see our home again
Through alien eyes.

Friday, December 16, 2005

December 14th Poems

On the Bus

Turbaned, on the packed bus, sitting alone
Hollow-cheeked; reading, bearded, a book in foreign tongue.
Each person that moves by does not sit, a wound
Scraped on the marrow of one’s soul,
Every glance searched for fear, reflexive
Bitterness hidden under calm mien.
And, too, dark amusement at people who
Help create monsters all unknowing,
Never thinking themselves unkind.

On Needing Sleep

The longing for some name of bliss,
Sleeping in separate beds,
Your snores rocking the confines
Of this, our hollow fortress.

Of all reasons to divorce you
Only this, alone, is true:
I can’t sleep beside you
No matter how I love you.

Memory pulses thro’ my brain
A snore! A snore! It never ends:
It’s small things that destroy us -
My ears can’t stand the strain.

We met where the sacred clothes itself in the profane.
You - an image of the Goddess,
I - just a drunk and foolish man.
“Take it off,” I said softly, meaning the divinity.
Your sweet nothings burnt into my soul
Louder than thunder,
The dress falls naked
To the ground, to the most holy ground, like a dream spent.
I rush to save it, to claim it, to hide
My face from the ever-living storm.
Sodden with fear we cling together, come together.
The dance as old survival,
I imagine lightning as we melt.
Orifices meeting hunger
In the temple of the gods our thunder
Briefly stuns the Heavens to silence
And we flee from darkness to dream
Held aloft only
By wild laughter
And a dress, like a flag, left to lie
Fallow in the breeze.

December 13th Poems, Part 3

I would kill you but I am afraid
Of what I may become when the deed is done.
I am afraid I shall not stop,
Entranced by power and pride.
Bereft of a support group,
With only myself to lean on
(i would not draw god into my sins)
I am forced to let you live.
Know, though, that the real monster
Is inside me, waiting.

Unable to explicate
Loss moulded to my fate
I wait and contemplate

Your loss is your own
Under heavy truths
We bow our heads

Signs areOnly real
In the lightOf the drowned moon.

December 13th Poems, Part 2

Lost in dreams of yesterday
I’m struggling to find my way.
Every choice seems a delay.
I keep thinking I have things to say
But I said them all yesterday.

The stars are afraid to die:
See how they burn!
I am afraid to cry -
Watch how I laugh!

Wanting only the freedom that comes in not being free.
In the loss of happiness and security:
In the failing of the fullness of all dreams,
One world, always tumbling at the seams.

I ask - can I remove my mask?
I seek - to be something more than weak.
I’ve lost - never thinking about costs.
My face - seems to you lost to grace.
I ask - what was my task?

Thursday, December 15, 2005

December 13th Poems, Part 1

Still, in the emptiness between voids.
Searching, I am all out of finding.
Lost? I only wonder
What is to loss, or find.

Soft, in the fullness between void,
I walk between twin mysteries:
life and death, both Being.
Unbeing, the non, lies about me
(lies to me) terrible in its quiet.
Invisible, I only see it
When the lights of cities burn low.


Having something to say
is not finding the words
with which to say it.
The line between wanting and needing
is a reed striving
to bend. I said
I would not forget, but
have forgot why I said that.
I need what I cannot give -

Early December Poems

[A few short poems. The next series (occupying 3 or so posts) will be poems written on the 13th and 14th of December in one mad rush of energy. I tend to write a lot of poetry on the bus. And explanations of some poems, in brackets like these, will be added from time to time.]

We fail language when
We cannot find the words,
Vocabularies stunted by
The rising sun.

The emptying of my soul
Was a long fall into the dark night
Propelled by lust and longing for
Forbidden lore and eldritch sights.

For this I fell, so glorious and far
To follow time through ruin and wreck
To behold the wonders of it all
And see all the new Star Treks.

A withered arm, hanging spent
From a muscled shoulder,
Its companion obscenely large:
Strength only serving to
Call attention to the wound.
I wonder - which arm is whole?
Searching, I find no words.

Needing options, we make
Making things, we find
Finding ourselves, we want
Wanting only our needs.

Monday, December 12, 2005


Canada winter,
Eight degrees, sun
                      on the grass
in Victoria.


I’m a modern dreamer, a little bit a schemer
I always have a song if I’m right, if I’m wrong.
A modern demagogue sitting on a log
Straddling the fence, pretending it makes sense.
The only thing I have are words
Trapped within, caged like birds.

And a dream never dies even when a dreamer cries
And a song’s never over, new verses to discover,
And hope holds is through the lies that are true
And everything we wish for that seems to just vanish.
Failing language, we can’t find words
And far away have flown the birds.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Two scenes from "Through The Wilderness"

Two scenes, starring Joe Crow, the shaman-to-be who fell into bad medicine (alcohol) and was freed by one of the MCs parents, who are telepaths. He realized what they'd done to him, and promised to aid them. They are, in the first scene, under attack by telepaths trying to take over the town. The next scene is a about three hours later.]

Walking. The old man was walking through it, clothed but naked, letting the wind blow through him in this world, and the other. He was glad it was dawn, George Smith, because otherwise he may have been seen and accused of flashing pretty girls, for he was wearing nothing under his coat, and nothing on his feet. There was only the snow under the feet, one step, another step, pattern, beating, drums. He understood voodoo drums now, and omm, and the use of drums for meditation. Repetition was the key, the thing to keep you you.

He walked, digging his feet in to the solid reality of snow seeping into boots, into the muddy trail along behind him, the play of wind in the trees and his air. Boundaries, that was the key. At some level they broke down, he knew. He’s been in the dream before, where the subject/ object duality broke and all was subject. I am here, everything else is there. He had to remind himself of that several times as his feet tingled not entirely unpleasantly.

No one understands how useful lies are, how necessary, until they’re faced with a truth that is more than personal truth. Walls were important. They kept things inside. That was the real reason for walls, not what they keep out but what they don’t let in.

He’d been doing this forever, and for twenty years. Time was as much an illusion as everything else he thought. Perhaps it was all illusion, but then the illusions are real. He could feel his thoughts, and other thoughts. It was amazing, sometimes, how many things a person thinks of, at so many levels. And so he walked, trying not to think of certain things, to let the pattern, the sameness, wash through him.

He was building walls, because the dams were falling and it was all the magic he could offer in return for the freedom he’d been given from his curse.

But right now it felt like dominos. And his feet reminded him that he was also sacrificing his toes if he kept this up for much longer.


The old man lay in the bed, whispering prayers to the Great Spirit as tubes entered and left his body like strange alien worms. The self-important men told him he could lose his toes, but it didn’t bother him as much as his failure. There had been many times he’d failed himself, but failing others was always harder to bear.

He drew on his strength, what little he had left, and prayed. It was not a last resort, his plea: all magic is prayer, invocation, conjuring. But if nothing answered, he was not sure what he would do. The pigeon came into his morphine dream later as he slept. The fact that it was his totem didn’t surprise him, nor that he was a statue it crapped on.

“You are needed,” it told him.

“Fuck off,” he said pleasantly. He’d have preferred it be a crow, to go with his name, but the universe never worked that way.

“You are needed,” it repeated sternly.

He’d disappointed it, but that was nothing new. The old man chronicled his life as a history of disappointments.

“No one needs anyone,” he said cheerfully. “We are all free. Wondrously, gloriously free to do whatever we want.” He wasn’t sure if it was the morphine that spoke or if it was him.

“People will be hurt,” the pigeon said softly.

“No. This - all of it - is an illusion. Maya. All of that. If they are hurt, it’s their fault and their choice. Not mine. I can’t live anyone else’s life but my one. No one can.” The fierceness in his voice surprised him.

The pigeon laughed, sadly. “Dying in a hospital bed is a sad use of enlightenment.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Of course,” his totem said. “But that is all you are. Not good, not better than anyone else. Just right. And, maybe, wrong as well. Everything matters, you see. Everything. We are drawn to each other by our natures and our choices, but what we do once we are drawn together is entirely up to us.”

“I tried. I failed.”

“You tried alone,” the voice said, deeper now. “Alone, there is only failure in the end. With others, you may succeed.”

“And do what?” he spat. “Miracles? I know how that roads ends. Mobs. Death. I have no wish to die for anyone, nor for their ideals. Besides, what would I be dying for? None of this is real!”

“No, no it’s not. But the beauty is real,” the pigeon said, and vanished as a nurse put more morphine into his system and he drifted into sleep without dreams, and a dream of spiders and nets and winter tales, with dim memories of Shakespeare burned into his minds by the public - white - school system.

‘I have drunk, and seen the spider’. It didn’t seem funny when he woke up.

Fake Chinese Poetry

[a.k.a. I have begun reading a book on Chinese verse today. The following quick poems were inspired by the poems I read.]


I wrap myself in slender leaves,
The winds caress my soul.
About me nightmares pace and howl
But Oh! the sky is beautiful.


I want to believe
The truth that Master’s say
But if all is illusion
is it illusion
To read the lies they wrote?


Of late I have come to conclusion
As the night birds sing the dawn
That no teacher but a Master
Ever sough a student’s surpassing them.
For only a Master has wise selfishness
And lets seekers find their glory
Like a moth, straining
To make its own fire.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Gearing Up for January, Poem #7

Wanting, and wings
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod

I want to be with you ‘til the end of time
When the stars line up in their ancient lines
Ashes falling from the corner of our eyes
No disguises, no reprisals, nothing to call.
The wind is in your face
The light is in your hair
In this strange place
I find I do not care
But I’m still waiting for some kind of sign.

Something to tell me about the road we’re on
If it ends and where we’ve gone
Coz I’m walking down a road of my own making
To a castle in the sky and breaking it
With my fears
That have no end
And your tears
That never mend
Because one day your heart just came undone.

And we’re both waiting for a better tomorrow
I wish my fears could be drowned in your sorrow
And your tears could be turned into a fine wine
To let the whole of Creation know you are mine.
The road has an end
As does everything,
Tender time will mend
your heart -- angel wings
Will envelop us and eternity be ours to borrow.

Everyone Knows
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod

Everyone knows what
long sleeves in the summer mean,
coats that are worn over skin
to stand alone swishing in the heat.

Everyone understands
that the wide eyes are silent,
and the secrets inside
are never spoken even if you limp

It’s a stone, or a mistake,
and never wad deliberate,
hunger desperate yearning
telling you the other side is greener.

the mask over your face
is a hated thing, but you bear it
and no one ever says
a thing, thinking it is for your protection.

The mosquitos buzz, the mask
holds back flies, and they just see
a horse in a paddock, wearing
a blanket to ward off the rain,
never wondering at your secret shame.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Gearing Up for January, Poems #6

Sport Poems

Voodoo bowling, with
every pin someone
who has scorned me.

I never bowl a perfect game.

But it does not matter,
I'd need more than 300
To settle all my pains.

Playing pool for souls
We stare into holes
Wondering: what did
It mean -- solids
Instead of stripes.
And was it just hype,
Number 8 my soul
Falling after all?
The white ball was
Innocence because
It kept being hit, and
We refused to quit.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Gearing Up for January, Poem #5

The Rain
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod

We lay sleeping in the rain,
The sky the colour of the end of a matchstick
Smoking signals no one can now decipher.
Cipher, you hold me, but not too fast,
Saying: words, but I am not sure those you say
The words you utter, are the ones
I am hearing, and the rain
Obscures your voice.
Thunder drowns out my questions
The only answers found in flesh
As we create a new language
Using old tongues, and write it
In the contours of flesh
And I wonder at the words you say
And to whom you are saying them.
“I love you,” you are saying
But it is only to a dream and no one real.
And I am waiting for you
Waiting to awaken, to wake up, to -
To touch me, and make a warmth
To pierce the rain, and as One
We will be together, untouched by the storm,
No longer sleeping
No longer cold
No longer alone.

Gearing Up for January, Poem #4

Do you love me, can you tell me
Is it real, and is it fated
Or are we just constipated?

Do you need me, will you tell me
What you feel about anything
Growing in you like the Spring

Do you hate me, can you tell me
If words heal or only hurt
Just don’t stand there so inert

I’m walking through the desert
Looking for a flower to bring
To tell you it’s not too late
It’s never too late when it’s fated.