See the bright light at the end,
I think it leads to me, dead.
I find it hard to look for little gifts each day,
Overshadowed by the voices that say,
This isn’t right, it’s not the way.
That tell me what I can’t hear.
Who’s that girl standing near the sun?
She’s too close; she’s almost done.
Burning to a crisp and she,
Will float up, heavenly.