Becoming Yourself

This was made from words that kinda flooded out of my mind.

A black suit 

A tie of style

Just like a wandering troop

Walking the boots for a mile

A weak sun peeking

Through the tree line

Mumbling in bed, he goes back to sleeping

Saying 'This heart is mine'

Checking the cuffs twice

Adjusting the tie twice

Saying things twice

Stumbling on the words, twice

Always too shy to meet the eye

That's a bad characteristic

Says the mad the charismatic

Of men in suits

And ties of style

Isolating to the city

Binding to the lost

They've no home among the many

They prefer the hanging moss

Of the trees reaching a mile high

The rain fell from the fog

Hanging at the height of a mile and two

Branches never fell, holding firm

And the animals don't talk much

Out in the valley and the icy hills

The man left back towards the land

Where man has been growing bread

He sent his suit and tie

To the men in the charity

He said he was going, marry-ly 

And grow things in the land of trees

Reaching a mile tall