|
Wash your hands clean, |
|
don't let anybody see the dirty work. |
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Keep those secrets |
|
locked away from sight forever, |
|
hidden safely where your darker side still runs berserk. |
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So much stored-up resentment, |
|
all that background fallout from so long ago, |
|
it's still here to haunt you. |
|
In a trunk locked in the attic |
|
are the clothes that dressed the actions |
|
you discarded but you can't outgrow. |
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There's a false wall in the basement |
|
where you hide away the history you dare not put on show. |
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And when the hammer hits the nail upon the thumb |
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then the unvarnished truth is what you stumble on. |
|
On your best behaviour, |
|
keep on playing out the lily-white, |
|
but you'll always be stuck there, |
|
going round and round in circles, |
|
the mistakes which you repeat form up the framework |
|
which defines your life. |
|
You couldn't quantify the depths you'd have to plumb |
|
or the damage you've collaterally done. |
|
Still, your own footprints are the tracks you stumble on. |
|
And it's less by design than by random occurrence |
|
that you filled up your time, that you built up the current |
|
to spark the life you've led, the person you've become. |
|
With the end in sight the excuses are all gone. |
|
The truth is, this conclusion's what you've stumbled on: |
|
behind you lies the wreckage that you've stumbled from. |
