Playing in a Pyre (Post-Script)

If I could make the dreams stop I don't know if I would
They're the only place I can see my grandmother's house
She doesn't live there now
But I find myself there a couple nights a week
In a glimpse of sleep
It's always the same as it was
When I was smaller than the kitchen chairs
Sometimes my grandfather's there
I'm trying to be somewhere I know I can't be
I don't know how much I've got left in me

Seasons last as long as they should
The stillness between them is somehow so verbose
Do you ever feel your life is coming to a close?
I'm carving a cathedral, playing in a pyre
Falling asleep up in the spire
I'm slowly but surely bending at the knees
I don't know how much I've got left in me

As I ran down that western shoreline
I watched my feet skipping and jumping,
Tumbling and cracking and falling,
And all at once they lifted off the ground
All at once I was very much unlike myself
I was very far apart from my mother and from my father
I was very far away from
The hummdrumming of a grasshopper
Who had found his place upon a fallen log
I felt the echo of the rotting
And found my footing among the decay
And amid the eroding shore
"You're too late," said the grasshopper
As he tapped along to the drone of the tide,
"And so very lost."
"I'm right on time," I told the grasshopper,
Though I knew it wasn't true.