Sunday Munich

Slowly writing me out of the story
The way your words can strangle
The lack thereof can blind
Lay by me you aren't here
And ankles bound by obligation
For all the presents broken
And promises bought
And religion and respect sought after
You can't answer
I have made you mine
[I feel cold and I feel bitter)
Fashioned little to be recognized [and I look small]
Oh, my dream [have gotten frail]