The Station Is Cold
The station is cold, old and decaying but still echoing a memory of Georgian grandeur.
by David Lacey
The cathedral gothic solemn stands overlooking the surrounding lands
And grounding the dreams of those who aspire towards divinity encased within a flesh Case of fragile mortality.
Sat here now, so many miles from home
I know what it is to be alone
I know what it is to wander the realm of dreams
I know what it is to rip reality at the seams
I have seen feathered angels adorn the garb of demons in fury
I have seen love quilt hatred in the hearts of men
I have seen the secret of now and then
And I know that I am true to myself
Here, naked and still
Embracing the ice chill that pierces my chest
Strange heroes from a former life are stirring the mix of destiny’s entwining
We are as angels lost, adorned in the garb of devils
Dancing a bacchanal circle, tearing flesh from the limb.