Visit the young widow on an April night,
And remind her that all sins can be forgiven.
Sing like children in a room of mirrors,
Repenting the serpent and forgetting, forgetting.
Ask for forgiveness and she will ask too.
But will you forgive her? You would.
Except for one.
Visit her window on a September evening,
And tell her that you are a priest.
But the nights grow darker as you go walk down her road,
And the secrets get deeper but you carry the load.
But can you carry the load? You could.
Except for one.
Visit her house on a cold October day,
When the wind is rocking you like a boat.
Look under the stairs where the rope still sits,
And the rose still withers in a frozen pitcher of water.
But what is in the closet?
Will she will show you everything? She would.
Except for one.
Erupt her the memories of a day she forgot,
A day she had to forget.
And sing with her about her triumph over evil.
As you laugh at the irony.
Play with her mind like a toy.
"Sardonic nooses are a playful cadence,
For the sun to dance a sordid radiance.
Ignore the roses and touch the stone plates,
And feel the bones rattle the graveyard gates"
You can visit her husband down that stony street,
Where the rose and the tree and the rope all meet,
And all you will hear is the echoes and sounds,
Of a conflicted heart behind trapped doors.
