Tonight the soil is cold, the dew is thick. The roots set to remove, unready for uprooting. If I didn't know any better I'd swear this place can't be real. So much growth amidst so much decay. I've seen too many black coats gather in another's name. I've watched tears make mud and heads bow in shame. You're not to blame. You're not to blame. You're not to blame. What am I even doing here? Walking amongst the ghosts, working my hands to the bone, hoping to conceal my regrets in a mausoleum all their own. Who will tell me I'm not to blame? Is there deliverance from this shame? The fog approaches me, it asks I breathe deeply, to fill my cup and drift away. It's not quite winter yet, but I can't shake this chill. Bottoms up I drift away. I never learned how to grieve. The pain I feel leaves me nothing in which to believe. Am I not to blame? Is there no refuge from shame? I'll mourn with you as I prepare the way.