A copy of the Catholic Bible laid open on a chair

two tickets on a westbound train heading for nowhere

dresses left in brand new boxes high upon the shelf

Grandpa’s guitar in leather case heading for great wealth

dreams of Shooter Jennings lying naked between my legs

praying real hard up to the sky for a land where no one begs

I can still smell the cigarettes as he sings his sad song to me

‘bout nights of passion in his arms that we know will never be

ruffling pinwheels in open skies still shifting all the dirt

a crucifix lies upon my chest beneath my tight red shirt

I believed him then but I still do though a shame it is to say

for confessions pass upon lucid glass you know that we replay

always then with an open door at feet like his I stand

sleeping restless once again saying prayers I can’t demand

sins and lies walk crooked lines thin with wear and hope

promised to you in other places well beyond our scope

good remains within the grains of time and sand, it’s true

then one day you find you pray for all the bad you do

barn doors will close so no one knows the way our secret goes

out in the fields where no one hears the song or how it flows