When I write a song,
how can it truly live if all I do is sing it to the wind.
and though the fuchsia of the poui may sway in time,
the rigid roots curl up their toes in excitement
and the kiskadee and the blue dove too, cease their chirping in reception,
My song cannot take its first breath until it touches your heart

Worse than the cries of grown men turning me fearful
Is the silence of the night
Worse than the shrills of executed people
Is the calm before the great fight

Coming to terms with being confronted by what I cannot face
Resigned to the fact, this could very well be my final resting place
So with the inevitable engagement close at hand
logic would discard panic, to formulate a plan

And if I am the one who lay
Whenever the smoke might clear
Let the one standing tall know
Of him, I had no fear

On the marshy banks of the river temptation
I grow shorter, sinking deeper into indulgence
I want to dive in ****, exposing my true nature
but yet, over the fog, across the ripping currents of conformity, I see him.
The man I yearn to be and fear stricken for failure I pull at my legs and pull at the vines and shovel at the swallowing mud consuming me deeper into reality, further from the man I see across the torrent.
Well postured, with a bright smile, a warm wave and a full head of hair
and it is with the image forever branded onto my cortex that I sink in defeat at the seemingly impossible distance between us.

You held my hand with love
as we strolled down the way
Peripherally, i saw wings up above
nothing said, but all to say

As we strolled down the way
frolicking children flourished the air
Nothing said, but all to say
Engrossed in them as we prepare

Frolicking children flourished the air
not far from my bed
Engrossed in them as we prepare
no longer filled with dread

Not far from my bed
peripherally, i saw wings up above
No longer filled with dread
You held my hand with love

I find solace in the melody of the bamboo.
Awaiting the chorus of sunlight
ripping through the canopy
onto the dry leaf strewn clearing caked by the broil of the maker.
All the while a few rebels dance in a cyclone
adding value in their non-conformity to an almost perfect landscape,
a landscape only blemished by tyre tracks, a harsh reminder of the hands of humans in every facet, crevice, orifice, every jar of this earth.

Fear not of man
for men die
Fear not death nor the coming tide
Fear not the tide
for it is inevitable, nature
so embrace it indubitably
Fear not doubt
for uncertainty breeds panic
Fear your ignorance
for such is without limit