I still can see the bar lights, neon green and red and blue
As I turn my head the other way and kneel at my pew
I pretend to hear God’s voice in my ear
Saying “It might not be your week, but it’s your year,
And I have a special plan for you
Walk ‘till your bones rot through
To the nearest desert, directly to the West.
You can take I-80. I wish you the best.”

My feet are so sore, let me take of my shoes,
And pray to my savior for a bit of good news
It has not rained in a week
The wooden cross inside me’s beginning to creek
And I want to believe so bad
I hate this doubt I have
I want to lay down but I’m not dead yet
My spirit needs to pay this debt

Fast forward to Nebraska where my lucky stars betrayed me
The vastness lacking obstacles managed to blockade me
I fell asleep on the grass next to the road
A cold hard bed, but organically grown
For which a trillion different breezes were blown
And a trillion little seeds were sown
Nestled in the ground to await their birth
A trillion lucky stars in the soil of the earth

I nestle in the ground without flowers or oil
I am a seed in the soil

Seed Song

Sam Morisson