A place so gentle to confide.

Where do the weary lay down their thoughts
A place so gentle to confide

 like a book with blank pages, opened up to look inside

Could you hold the moments that they themselves cannot hold

And write so gentle each thought they told as time permits as they grow old

You see the young man his journal long, he quotes a sweet realise
 on whites of page

To young to feel the envy of time, to young to feel it's rage

Maybe the eccence is in the middle towards the start not quite the end

That we may find the pages opened, often like a friend

And in the times of greater strength, write words for both the young and old

Inside the book we must all carry, where pages
Read unfold.