Low…… in the morning, in the morning…. Sickness and poison are doing me in, canvas opinion from saints As you cry your desert dream goes by Buy it in bottles dispense at a whim, feel like a badly made film In your corduroy skin you feel so Low…… in the morning, in the morning…. Low…… in the morning, in the morning…. And I’ll take to the streets with my message, Even though it may be hard to defend This I’ll do with my life yet to spend And you’re looking at me and I’m finding it hard to even pretend That I will still be here in the end I get so low in the mornings sometimes, my friend Passion of intellect, liberty, books, across the hill seabirds agree You are what the world is waiting for Forget the hollow, the training of skulls, demand our attention again I think then you might not feel so Low…… in the morning, in the morning…. Low…… in the morning, in the morning…. Low…… Low……

A silent and dark light streaks over the edge of the abyss Searching for that lost thought, nightmare or forgotten sin. With an abstract ability to conjure, manifest, form and bring to the minds eye nothing but wicked thought and Satan prayer….. It pirouettes independently in the desolate vacuum of thought. Seeking. Always seeking. Beneath the waters edge, a foam and raging angst which batters relentlessly at jagged rocks while formations of serenity dance, translucent in the misty dark A forgotten poem, a song, the memory of a child; only to trickle away as the darkness, never forgiving, forces them down into the drink Clarity; shrouded in dark, dense blacken fog; silent, is ever searching for the other side of the darkness but can only ever muster sadness, just like the missing children lost to heavy weather in deepest, darkest Ullswater It is weak, it has no strength or purchase, it is easily dissuaded and the darkness knows it, it loses purpose or reason and slips even when it hears a happy song no matter how loud or how beautiful Instead, it fades away into a sad voice which hangs in the air like a led zeppelin awaiting its inevitable fiery doom It’s a constant battle akin to a scene from Paradise Lost, secretly knowing Satan is the real hero. A mind not to be changed by place or time. Then, suddenly and without warning, the darkness lifts and clarity, sanity and serenity reveals itself Like a never-ending photographer’s flash or a bolt of lightning which stays in the dark clouds forever, the light which has been missing for an aeon, finally arrives Relief, happiness, a weight lifted, forgotten kind words between friends come flooding back Only the joy which should soar doesn’t last for long, but not because darkness triumphs over light, but because I feel lost without it I miss the darkness, I long for the searchlight of misery to hunt out those torturous tales and past sorrows Without the weight of sadness upon my shoulders, I feel like I could lift off at any time A lucid dream, clutching on to the coattails of a nightmare