Only his memories are walking by his side,
One stone per charished moment in his pocket,
And dusty letters in his leather jacket,
Remind him of how good the good times were,
Though he wonders, what was it all for.
He never had too many things,
But what he did have, he had a lot of,
A soul to live, fingers to play, and heart to sing,
Some may say that's just not enough,
Though to me, that's more than we could ever hope to posess,
A life lived this way doesn't need any more or any less,
Make every laughter count, every tear, every breath,
For before you know it, you will have left.
Now he sits by himself by the side of the road
Watching everyone walking as they go,
As they head somewhere to hang their hats and coats,
He's a wreckadge stuck in the middle of the sea,
Surrounded by speedboats,
But at least he's free.