Saturday morning,
I wake from my sleep.
Saturday morning,
I start to weep.
Looking back apron
the efforts.
Looking back I see
that it could never last.
First to start,
First to leave.
I guess he
never believed.
What was conceived
was the fruit of sin.
An unborn child
held within.
Saturday morning,
I wake from my sleep.
I looked out the window
to see nothing but your feet.
You walked forward
without any grief.
I moved on but
what a large feet.
Bleak summer winds
blow beneath my face.
Her in my arms we
both look back.
Saturday morning
my little girl asked,
"Where is daddy going
and is he ever coming back?"
We look back and see that Saturday morning
was just meant to be .
Saturday morning I
wake from this dream,
And I realize that you
would never leave.
