Whistle Stop

Whistle for your stop, and from the dizzy height you drop, to the ground on bended knee, guess you don’t hold every key

And for clues you look around, all you see is a spire, piercing the cloud

And from this connections you don’t make, to that long lost garden and that cursed snake

Just tying yourself to dead ritual, like a boggy marsh, it weighs down the soul

And makes our passage sluggish and slow, if you want to make steam you have to make the fire glow

So light a long candle and give the embers a stoke, And tarry not upon these tiresome jokes

We’ve no time to lose now, we’re driving, wild

And yet reflecting that madness and tracing those spires

As though we truly believe, in some physical way, that reaching for truth will empower us to say

That a will drives through us, we are a blank slate, And it sounds so pure, till they bar up the gate.

And it’s then that you realise, the truth so obscure, No misty distant mountain, no sun tipped shore

But now hurtling along, at frightening speed, and for their mercy you cut, and then you bleed

And they give it so freely, because they know, that another white wool covered fool they have grown

And they tie you to a branch, and you plummet from the top, and the platform approaches, but no whistle stops


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