The town in which it is I live
Is rightly named Turnaround
Where some folk turn their lives around
While others get turned around and never found

It all depends on which side of the street
You find yourself on at any given time
To how much it is your willing to take
Versus how much your willing to go out and find

So if you ever find yourself in Turnaround
Take this old mans kindly advice
Hold on to good that you have learned
And use what you have learned to turn around your life

My thought was our love
Was to big to fail
That we had more than enough
Until I found out

It didn't last long
All on account
Of the pressures we had
That started to mount

What I had banked on
What I thought we both had
I failed to use
The proper math

And now that it's gone
I wish I had known
That when we gave each other our hearts
It was only a loan

I am...
The tunnel in the vision

I am...
The ink drying in the pen

I am...
The thought when you made your decision

I am...
The last time that you spent

I am...
The master of illusion

I am...
The hunger that you crave

I am...
The past time of delusion

I am...
The tomorrow that left yesterday

I am...
What once was but never will be

I am...
The point that has not been seen

I am...
The cost when you wish you were free

I am...
The Mystery

As the sun sets in the east,
Distant thoughts are underlying.
The clocks that hang on barren walls
Are turning back in time.

Our past has been rewritten.
No more anticipating the future world.
The day has now come for us
To see the past unfurl.

So we take out pen and paper
Writing down all that we see
Promising ourselves we'll never tell
Of what is soon to be

But every thing that we see
Can take a different route.
A leaf fallen from the wrong tree
Can change what comes about.

And if that leaf hits water
That just happens to float upstream,
Be careful of the where a bouts
Or somewhere in between.

So future, past, or present.
Take your pick. It's all the same.
We have no control
Over the way to play the game.

Under the overhang with my hand in the frying pan
I am tickling trout,
making them laugh and pulling them out,but
the bailiff gives a stiff warning and says,
'don't be here in the morning'

A trout with a smile on its face is as good as a bird in the hand,at my place there's a plaice,they can play catch me can, 'til they're battered and fried with chips at the side.
I am tickling trout with my hand in the pan,the tide's going out,the time's getting thin,the bailiffs about and I know it's a sin but it's fun.

That hospital ward in 87
and you a young
3 year old
with an  infected leg.

You and I sitting
by the window
looking at the scene
and the trains going by
every now and then.

And the nurses
trying to get you
to take the medicine
and you fighting them off
and wiggling
and then after
they got it in your mouth
you let it drip out
of the side of your mouth
with that infamous smile.

That last time
in hospital in 2014,
with something more deadly,
the dark ward,
bed by the window,
you alone, adult now,
I saw you there,
huddled over,
puffed up,
seemingly neglected,
and I went
and rattled
the nurse's cage
about you
and the treatment
or lack of.

That last time we spoke,
mundane questions,
you ill, soft spoken,
fighting to breathe,
no infamous smile,
no last famous words,
just a reluctance
to say good bye
and leave.