Between the Righteous and the Wasted

i was born on wild mountain
when the snow lay deeper than the blues
in the midst of the darkest winter
long before the weeping willows bloom

to this day, i don't know where i'm going
to this day, i don't know where i stand
between the righteous and the wasted
in a mystery hidden from the man

far away from wild mountain
there is a house riddled with decay
where my heart, so tired of groaning
turns to stone and whittles life away

to this day, i don't know where i'm going
to this day, i don't know where i stand
between the righteous and the wasted
in a mystery hidden from the man

when i die on wild mountain
if the sun is hidden from the day
take me down to the banks of jordan
let the water carry me away

on that day, i won't know where i'm going
on that day, i won't know where i stand
between the righteous and the wasted
in a mystery hidden from the man

(i suppose that technically, weeping willows do bloom. are the blooms remarkable enough for that image to be a strong one)

Where Did That Story Go

where in the world did that story go?
where in the world did that story go?
the one i promised i would tell you
the one i promised would be true
on the day we were set free

where in the world did that story go?
where in the world did that story go?
i have searched far and wide
i have looked for the signs
i have listened for a rhyme
where did that story go?