The Pilot

We set sail, no constellation or sea,
No ancient map, no vivid dream, no birthmark or revenge fantasy,
Just free to bask
In the joys of things that still are to be.

We dined tonight on the bird of good omen,
We filled our [deepened] pockets with ill sedatives and poison,
And all the need to be
At the centre of attention and greed.

Absalom...
Absalom...
It's a desolate road,
That we travel upon.

Absalom...
Absalom...
It's a desolate road,
That we travel upon.

I'm sinking fast under skin turned to lead,
Immune to flack and knives in the back, crept into your bedroom and shat in your bed.
The fear of sitting alone
Surrounded by small victories.

(Heave ho, heave ho.)
[Stone in] A harbour of concrete, no tide, wind or motion,
‘As tired as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.' *
As time erodes and rusts,
As the anger turns to dry apathy.

Absalom...
Absalom...
It's a desolate road,
That we travel upon.

Absalom...
Absalom...
It's a desolate road,
That we travel upon.

Go!
Let's go!


* Samuel Taylor Coleridge