As if obeying an unwritten law of doom,
I slowly raise my head from its stupor,
as if somehow my eyes might meet yours,
the weight of raising it saps all strength,
making weary the bones,
so here I sit in my quilted chair,
reciting dark verse and listening to the single chords
of a disenchanted violin,
trying to fit together the wrong shaped parts
of a cataclysmic jigsaw puzzle,
yearning for the light and shadows of my waning moon
as it drifts across the darkened shape of my window,
the cross shaped frame crucifying my soul,
yet within this sanctuary of mind,
all does seem calm and contented.

I will lay me down
And bow my back
To the point of breaking
So I can be your bridge
To better things

Come grab your guitar
we'll sings some songs
like they did back in ''66
words found over a bottle of rye
'bout how the times are a changing
look around and you will see
its time to set ourselves free
your government is in control
while your tied to the progress wheel
round and round and round  it goes
where it all stops only freedom knows
so come on strum those frenetic chords
let the words flow from your heart
grab your life back from the tyrant's hand
rise from this sleep and make a stand.

I see the man who sleeps under the bridge,
he sings my song,  doesn't subscribe to your point of view,
lives between the gaps,  in places you've never seen,
he doesn't see the flag you wave,
nor cares to carry the message it bears
he see's the powers that be watching you fall,
marching to the beat of the new democracy,
freedom from the back of your privilege class,
while we all walk on the broken glass,
he hears the birds sing of a call to arms,
high in the tree's beyond your ivory towers,
through his tears we see it's time for a change,
as the wind blows through your corridors of power,
I'll search for the man who sleeps under the bridge.

Whilst all around, our cares we tend,
a sheaf of corn catches glinting eye,
no yoke to bear, no toil and strife,
a golden prize is there to take,
dark skies above, a listless wind,
two dogs bark with tales to tell,
a distant train pulls iron and steel,
little belly starts to twitch, a yawn, a scratch,
a nose to sniff,
a thousand years is fuel indeed,
for spindle legs to run the course,
over twigs and stones, the gauntlet thrown,
a heavenly morsel to be found,
Through the window a furrowed brow,
sleep must mask the answers sought,
farmer pens his sums with haste,
whilst out in the field the conqueror spoils,
snug and warm, content and fed.

If I was to gaze into those eyes what would I see,
diamonds and jewels glistening in the morning dew,
blazing fire as they gaze into a crimson sky,
the blood red reflections mirroring your burning soul,
in such vitreous pools lay anchored ships of fools,
casting off their chains , setting sail to faraway lands,
ghosts that wander through the shadows,
moonbeams reflecting on a porcelain skin,
beacons through the darkness shining forth on rainbow shores,
there shall I seek my sanctuary until mornings new light.

An argument over nothing,
left vomiting on this humble pie,
why stretch the limbs till they hurt ?
the teacher sets out her books not just to read,
she sets them out to show the promise of discovery,
so I sit in the quietness of empty promises,
wondering if I might even summon tears,
what goes up must inevitably come down,
this I remember through the furrows of my frown.