I turn my head and gaze out longingly, as the cemeteries pass fast beside of me.
The headstones zip past at an alarming speed, and I try in vain to make them out, and read.
Once I stopped at every one I could find, and never once failed to find family of mine.
Now he has the wheel , and my choice has been taken away,
I feel the need to find them all and go to pay my respects,
I get a lump in my throat, looking down on those old stones,
It is an addiction, just like all the rest, I want to find my story to tell.
These people of mine lie in their graves, some so very close by.
They are of me and I of them. a tiny cell of theirs within I carry.
I may have 'her' dimple or maybe 'her' chin, I make look a bit the same,