| Rioting quietly. |
| We started fires and threw bricks.
|
| Ignition. |
| The rubbing together of two sticks.
|
| Dead dog. |
| New tricks. |
| Left alone. |
| Keep this right.
|
| Looking for the cheapest flight and yet another sleepless night.
|
| Bad dreams — the deepest fright. |
| Endeavor through hallways.
|
| Pitch-black, endless. |
| Saying 'never' to always.
|
| Once the doors open, the audience will file in.
|
| Then you piano and I try to violin.
|
| I fall to the floor in dementia and protest.
|
| My job is to translate into a language that’s grotesque.
|
| Drowning in the open waters of frustration and frank rage.
|
| It troubles the heart and I’m left staring at the blank page.
|
| The distorted floor beneath me and blurry skies.
|
| Hands that are on fire can’t hide worried eyes.
|
| The cold sets in, in the autumn of a hell
|
| And I concentrate on the answer at the bottom of a well…
|
| In exile…
|
| In exile…
|
| One more time forever for the mourner
|
| Dressed in all-black and painted into a corner.
|
| Rock-hard weeks compared to the soft minutes.
|
| The few and far-between and words that are off limits.
|
| The horses all ran away. |
| They ran away. |
| The birds dispelled.
|
| Eyes that may never make contact and words withheld.
|
| All the cats are black and the sidewalk’s cracked.
|
| I’ve been down so long, I don’t know how to act.
|
| Appearing real. |
| Strangling the steering wheel and choking throttles.
|
| Thinking the worst and drinking from broken bottles.
|
| The deepest breath: held it in. A skeleton that grows twisted.
|
| Are we reading from the right script? |
| Tight-lipped and closed fisted.
|
| Bearing a task. |
| All the questions we’re caring to ask
|
| While keeping our guards up and wearing a mask.
|
| Making art. |
| The war being waged and taking part.
|
| Seeing the stars fall and the sound of a breaking heart, like… |