Not all risks are fatal, son remember, know that the past is gone a faded image of yesterday. Charge on blind, let chance hold sway gamble your soul-- the odds are but hyperbole; if nothing you run the risk of winning and by now theres ain't a thing left for you to lose. Let it ride, misplace your pride, a silly thing to cling to when you choose to hide. Understand this: It's time to choose between waiting for the faded horizon to explode in twilight as the last embers of your wintry fire begin to flare, smoke evanescing, your death rattle all but fleeting, or blazing across the plains, outshining the dawn as it breaches the skies western lip. Remember, know that the days of waiting are done, you've watched the dice fall long enough-- it's time to play. Leave the call for surrender behind, let chance hold sway; gamble your soul, the odds are but hyperbole-- know that not all risks are fatal son, now that the past is gone: the faded image of yesterday, a product of mental decay.