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Leftover

Open your mind,

Open your heart,

Open your soul,

And never give up.

For open is grand,

And rich if there's sand.

For under the sand is not only land,

But bones of old and rotting still.

Behold, then beneath is their will,

For if you read about their life,

You'll find there are nought a thing but bills.

Bills and not riches to will.

So they cry to the moon,

And they cry to the sun.

Little do they know that no one has won.

For in days of the deep,

We are left counting sheep.

So little boy blue come blow your horn,

And tell the flock that's dead who's won.

For in mindless turns and countless stops.

We have not an item lost.

But. Our. Hearts.