Along an old and bumpy drive,
A brief reconnaissance —
The echoes of a hidden life,
The sounds of innocence

I look to see profusion in
The weeds that some call flowers —
I’ve seen these lanes in brightest sun
And darkest midnight showers

But what seems more important than
Our own lives when we live them?
We need no reasons, ’til the day
We can no longer give them —

A skinny, skittish, noisy boy —
Both doubt and self-belief —
The acorn, wandered from the tree,
Without much limb, or leaf

Oh, these were fields of promise
As we looked ahead back then —
But if not where we are, we only
Can see where we’ve been —

And I was meant to be someone
I never quite became,
Mid echoes of a hidden life
And murmurings

Of blame