It's knowing that your door is always open
And your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag
Rolled up and stashed behind your couch
And it's knowing I'm not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that are dried up on some line
That keeps you in the backroads
By the rivers of my memory
And keeps you ever gentle on my mind
It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy
Planted on their columns now that bind me
Or something that somebody said
Because they thought we fit, together walking
It's just knowing that the world
Will not be cursing or forgiving
world
words
walking
turned
train
together
through
thought
though
their
tears
still
wheat
stain
something
somebody
waiting
silence
shackled
stashed
rolled
rocks
sleeping
rivers
where
railroad
cupped
couch
cursing
across
beard
summer
crying
clothes
behind
smiling
dirty
blind
knowing
breast
backroads
always
makes
track
cannot
other
moving
caldron
between
forgiving
columns
clinging
might
stains
pretend
because
leave
crackling
lines
bonds
hours
campbell
dried
fields
originally
pulled
flowing
forgotten
gentle
gurgling
keeps
planted
hands
highways
memory
along
memories
mother
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