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Out for Self

de EM H THRICE GR8

Dear prodigal you are my son and I
Supplied you not your spirit, but your shape
All Eden's wealth arrayed before your eyes
I fathomed not you wanted to escape

And though I only ever gave you love
Like every child you've chosen to rebel
Uprooted flowers and filled the holes with blood
Ask not for whom they toll, the solemn bells

A child of dust, to mother now return
For every seed must die before it grows
And though above the world may toil and turn
No prying spades will find you here below

Now safe beneath their wisdom and their feet
Here I will teach you truly how to sleep

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