Stormy rain, stormy Eyes.
Look at me.
Wish you had of died.
A fairground trick, you never rang the hoop around.
The fairground ride,  you could see the nuts and bolts.
But still you whooped with me.
There was a time,
at the beginning of the line,
where you begged me for a kiss,
for a moment of bliss,
before the fear set in;
before the terror unfolded,
and i was screaming and opening my eyes,
and looking forward,
and never at you.
I smiled for the camera,
to capture the moment,
of unequivocal bliss, of falling and riding high again.
Still you swore you would hold my hand,
for whatever we had planned,
and when i let go,
you looked at those lines,
and realised,
boy, you're in this world alone,
to ride the ride,
with me by your side,
but alone in your seat;
So what is it?
Ultimate bliss,
or,
terror of self-defeat?




Just remember,
I was there,
just a hairtip away,
just a fingertip, from your fray,
when you start to unravel,
from me.


As we swoop,
as we fold,
as we argue through your childhood behaviour,
untold.


Line up, line up.
The ride is free.
The journey is finali-ty
when you are riding,
with me.