Then, said the detective man
How eager to recede
Up in open stairways
They run to what they need

Wipe clear the slate of time
Touch only what you see
Make way for the rising sun
The Earth produces trees

The forest is an open book
The pages get torn out
Forming silly books of men
Leaving nothing in return

Getting close retreat is near
So much closer to what they need
Bringing morals and exceptions to the rule
Blind meaning all they see

Come twilight you'll say a prayer
To your Buddy in the sky
Tell him everything, or nothing at all
Makes no difference, not to him

And so, said the detective man
His face all but gone
The key to the lock is mine
The prisoner stands alone--