It's not the first night,
No it's not the first time, It's been this way before
waiting, steadily humming, the white walled suffocation,
the reality, it waits, behind the black panelled, golden handled door.
The pipes are laughing behind the plaster,
but not in a friendly way
and the black windows remain still, eyes that died a while ago
gaze miserably out to the street.
Solitary madness, a carousel of colour
but the gramophone is silent, and eerily the horses go round
much to the displeasure of the only person watching
alone in the non existent crowd, waiting for a turn that never comes
round and round the colours blur,
but no music plays from that old gramophone,
well, who ever rides a carousel when they're on their own?
