High Without the Hope 72 - Port O'Brien

I see the consequence of one too many plans

Our time is short of hand

I’ll run through dark will come, leave them all behind

No one seems to mind

I’m home all the time, waiting on a move

That no one seems to choose

Still I’ll find regret

In every neighborhood

Up at your bedside

They’re not my brother

Oh, somehow now we have always known

Oh, this season we’d be on our own

Oh, I’m getting high without the hope

Oh, mourning’s never linear…