Look see
Farther still on crowded hill
My love stands against the storm
A soul undone for ever after

And should we fall asleep
And never wake
We'll walk the path of ages yet

And should we find each other
Waiting around the corner of time
Treading on precious memories
We'll link hands
Laughing into darkness
Like giddy children

An empty farmhouse
Hemmed in by wire
Blackened by history
Blackened by fire

It draws me in
I clutch the fence
Squeezing my fingers through the gap
But the air is just the same
Cold and dead
On both sides now

Home farm

He had no reflection
Such was his need
Theirs was the karma
On which to feed

And the river ran red
The river of dead
The river ran red
From bed to open cask

Such was his mask

Truth is cold, destroyer of dreams
truth is cruel and not what it seems
truth is blunt but cuts like a knife
the nature of truth is a fact of life.

Truth implodes when ideas are sold
truth is contrary to what you’ve been told
truth resides where evil fears
truth departs when trouble nears.

Truth is dark when scrawled on a wall,
insist on the truth or nothing at all.

Truth my friend is rarely kind
Seek this truth and you may find
that many truths are born of a lie
Why that is?
Don’t ask me why.

Loud the banging door
Loud the banging door
Loud the banging door
So softly tread the Angels
Here and now gone
Like the snuffing of the candle

Hush the tumbling leaves
Hush the tumbling leaves
Hush the tumbling leaves
So softly fall the Angels
Here and now gone
Like a feather on the breeze

Whisper was my dream
Whisper was the dream
Whispers from the dream
So softly hush the Angels
‘Come play with us’
Here and now gone
Like something leaving

Leave it all behind, drop the latch
take a breath, make it ******
turn the blind eye to the road ahead
cross the threshold
now it unravels, the thread of life.

Sitting round a camp-fire in the middle of a wood
I spied a dozen vampires eating treacle pud
Upon their bloodless heads they shrugged a ***** cowl
While pacing werewolves at their backs let forth an eerie howl

The setting moon was empty as was their heinous bellies
Before them lay uneaten heaps of pies and sweets and jellies
‘It is no good’, said one, ‘I am sick of this malaise.
What this pudding needs is a spot of Crème anglaise.’