You’re a torn windblown sail
You’re the one test I fail
You’re the ghost in my nightmares
That’s ghastly and pale

You’re a deep buried splinter
You’re my long, dark, cold winter
You’re the bars of a dungeon
And the door I can’t enter

You’re a long broken chain
You’re my stabbing chest pain
You’re the dark clouds and lighting
With a single drop of rain

You’re the one who never stayed
You’re a double edged blade
You’re the cold breath and biting wind
Of winter’s gray fade

I’m a bird on first flight
I’m the dawn at first light
I’m a tensed jaw and clenched fist
Before first street fist fight

I’m a tree with no roots
I’m a cowboy with no boots
I’m a gunslinger with two guns
But neither one shoots

I’m a mournful groan
I’m a heart of stone
I’m a rider on the mustang
About to be thrown

I’m a song never wrote
I’m the burned bridges mote
I’m the broken hearted lover’s
Frayed last strand of hope

I’m a lonely soul
I’m the toll booth’s toll
I’m the twelve dots on the loaded dice
About to be rolled

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

Try to the tie
The lies
Around the words
You swerve and curve
Bending the bind I deserve

Quickly
Snap futility
Into me
So my humility
Can pretend to pity me

Dig deep, the despair
You're up keeping, not aware
The scared stiff disastered reality
Is really,"...like", happening.

And we rang along those river banks
against the light cast as shadows,
fleeting past mournful dark windows-
timid in the evening's morning.

And you whispered into my eyes
the words you wanted me to see,
and showed them to idle ears
who waited for something else appear.

The knowledge we have
and the courage we contain
is an illusion-
a more accurate title
would be counterfeit wisdom.

Y'know there's those buildings you see
when escaping over the motorway and fleeing the country;
those same pitched roofs along the line,
streetlight tall like eager broken spines;
many-a architect's hand has been there with their
continuous ink, connecting that brick to that corner link,
drawing straight edge drain and eye sore pain,
those red doors and white doors and those PVC ***** doors that always
stand rigid,
though their locks stay locked until they're next visited.

Well those buildings are what you see
when you're fleeing from someone who hasn't let you free.