Eighty Seven

It's useless to hesitate, the knife's on the bone, always strikes too late, never safe to heed, where I've been going, whoever makes me plead, always leaves the gate, they say slay my ghosts, can't access our taste, wave goodbye to that scene, they have me all alone, whose turn now to bleed, it leaves me prostrate, a tune with broken tones, sealed in a shipping crate, if this is your creed, when you leave home, then who can succeed, the moon gyrates, it knows what I've seen, the wind in the slates, the fire in the breeze.