Here

Maybe I could lie,
                                                                                          sing a cradle song of dedication.
God knows, the mother side of me can feel your absence hanging on my hip,
but, baby,
                                                                         you'd make out contradiction in my tune and in my
          tone and in my lilt, so I guess it's clear, today, I'm writing not a lullaby but swan song,
                 and ungraceful as it is,
                     this
                        is what I'm bending to.

We're here again at deadlock, pressure building quickly and the climb it takes
            to curb the cries is far too high.
                             I've got miles still to travel,
here on level ground and I'm keeping now to path of daylight,
                                 dusty but holding view
cause the road at night is full of wanderer's and no one's playing cool.

Listen, can you hear my name in the void?

The trees are swaying, much like you, but their branches call me home.

I've
   evaded long the longing, killed the fear by numbing, coped by taking orders from those with foreign tongue; men in dapper dress
                          and evil on their lips.  I've poured my heart out to
                                            the weak and tasted my own defeat in poisoned kiss.  I've payed with purity, and sold my mind for one more chance then prayed for soul return. I've taken more than I can give and now I'm finally choosing freedom and the truth.  So, standing at the push and shove it's strain of protest prompting, and the might of all that's finally right that moves me on.  

The Sunday Whirl