coming around

wander broken paths and cut your feet on the aftermath
count the lines you have crossed looking back
shoulder holds the setting sun in a wisftul haze
there always seem to be better days
there always seem to be better ways

scout the overgrown ride a trail to the other side
count the lines you have drawn looking back
twilight beams blue streaks up weathered cheeks
there always seem to be better weeks
there always seem to be fading creaks

step forth a shaking shoe and hope to land on solid new
count the lines you have grown looking up
wisps of golden hair shade dance in the morning air
there always seems to be better there
it always seems to be everywhere