An open book with prequels, sequels and chapters untold,
your actions say it's written anonymously
I dealt you the perfect hand, but you'd much rather fold
with the fear of striking out and losing

I spend weeks song-writing and when I'm done
you say it's out of tune
I reach up in the sky to grab you the golden sun
but you'd rather have the moon

A beautiful princess waits alone in her castle,
still yet to become queen
A guitarist plays slowly in a corner coffee shop,
she's waiting to be seen

If I could read the epilogue, I'd tell you what tomorrow brings;
this moment is all I know
but when the morning sun rises and the brave bird sings
his song will carry me home.