The only thing that breathes is the sound of engine
Relentless in its climb against the steep rugged pass
Palms cold with sweat, eyes too awake for their sockets
Somewhere I heard a cry in the wild, was it my own voice?
Sounds drum in and out, sometimes it is my own, sometimes it is theirs’
Half of everything made sense; the rest was a strange spasm.
To think just yesterday I was filled with hope
Finally life held a distinct shape
But one should have known journeys like mine never end…
I am a spinning wheel blown in all directions
I am the eternal misfit’s voice.
They have stopped moving now
In front of us is the town, barely visible without the streetlights
Inside the dark grey building, a lone thought zipped by
Where is everyone? Where the fuck is everyone?!
I am lying on the bed… I have to sleep, I need to sleep now.
But I am so afraid for tomorrow will be hell.
The walls inch closer against the heart, how fragile is freedom!
Men of the Tibetan nights I see them coming now
In loose dark suits and their monstrous cars
I force my eyes open until the silhouettes fade
Beaten by the light of the ugly moon.
Yes you are here! Here in a little apartment across a golf course
Choked by featherlight pillows…this is absurd!
I wait for sunlight unable to sleep
Am I meant to tell stories of injustice?
Perhaps I am crippled by the baggage of the past…
Some say for your sake move on
Others insist people have a right to know the story.