End of September,
the leaves turning brown,
It's the same old story,
in this, my home town,
my back seat be empty
and calling your name,
and I wonder
could it ever
be the same,
The same as it was
before humpty fell down,
and made a mess
with these pieces,
on ground,
as my back seat
be empty
with you not around,
but only deep
in my heart,
that still weeps.
