It usually starts with a story, a story of someone not well in life
Not happy, not satisfied
It always starts with the hunger to go forward, to reach where you are meant to
Come on, move on, like time
Strike twelve already!
It’s my story, I like half past three
When I reach the end gate, a voice in me begs to turn around
Turn around and back up those steps and into the bed
For nothing can touch you while you act dead.
It’s weed, it’s infectious, it crawls up on me, unannounced.
I wince when it hits, I cry when it crushes me to the depths of despair
I wind the time to half past three
And it’s silent again, it’s silent in my soul.
It’s never locked for long as the clock strikes ten
I again descend the stairs to hell.
Catch my breath, feel the fire, know that I know
What happens when the curtains fall
When the light is turned back on.