A cheer to the fallen...a cheer to their name...For the soldiers of England is who are to blame. A sip of old whisky... a sting in the throat...for every glass emptied is another name wrote.

With shallow graves we find the nameless
With each shovel of dirt we bury the truth
For the past is forgotten and the future unknown
The darkness is our blanket

Where lies a field of unblossomed flowers and unplanted trees in what man stands alone?…

Where lies the final season, where the unblossomed flowers grow? In what field do these trees stand?

Where a wind is the hand of God…gentle will it let us fly like pollen gold in the bright day's sky.

Our souls are like the patterns on the backs of birds...and the secret of our innocence lay in their reflection...

for the blind see what we glance at...
the deaf hear the truth...
and the mute repeat it.

The empty halls of Bisbellow Mannor
Cold and dark under the torn burned banner
The empty rooms once full of life
Stand still and quiet from troubled strife
The empty stables once full of grace
Stands decayed and forgotten in time and space
The royal banner flew once high and proud
Lays fallen and thorn in mist and shroud
Greed and power let to blame
Covers this kingdom under a mist of shame
The hand that pulled the bow string tight
Released the arrow with fury’s might
Like lightning flew in the clouded sky
Through gale and rain with no reply
Struck the chest through a metal shield
Fell the king on the littered field

The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Wet and cold from the winter rain…
Of bleak weeks past and unknown days
Cold with dismay from the widow’s gaze
The widow’s eyes red from tears
Of nightmares past and present fears
The bells of the church ring far and wide
From shadows dark well implied
The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Wet and rusted from the winter rain…
The dark gray clouds fill the once blue sky
Darkens the day like a child’s cry
The plain iron gates of Timothy Lane
Rusted and stained from the tears and rain.
Of bleak weeks past and unknown days
Cold with dismay from the widow’s gaze

Where stands the lonesome tree?
And what protects it, the branches?
What shapes its growth but the weary?
And amongst said branches…leaves.

What fragile life do we share with it?
For like the leaves we brittle and fall…
and like the wind…. breath fades...

What supports its existence?
Is it time? Persistence?
What is its purpose?

Alone and lost underneath these branches
Stand in fear we take our chances

And in the distance stands a figure
Who’s cloak and shadow dance with vigor

Who’s face as if clouded
Whose memories all but shrouded
Whose name all but doubted…

Silence as if in mocking
In truth as if blocking

And in the darkness we stand and ponder
In the darkness our minds wonder
The time that we lose and squander
Under the lonesome tree