Lying here,
Alone in my bed,
It’s like a vast desert,
With sand a burnt red.

This feeling of emptiness,
Of sleeping alone,
It’s just like a tumbleweed,
By the desert winds blown.

To look at it moving,
It seems but so free,
But there’s a side of the tumbleweed,
That people don’t see.

With it constantly moving,
You see but a glance,
But when it stops dead,
You see there’s no chance.

Nothing to hold to,
No roots to plant firm,
That’s why it keeps moving,
‘Cause there’s nowhere to turn.

If the wind were to stop,
And things were to change,
Then maybe that tumbleweed,
Could make home on the range.

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