Is it the painter or the picture
Hanging in the gallery?
Admired by countless thousands
Who attempt to read the secrets
Of his vision of his very soul
Is it the painter or the picture
Hanging in the gallery?
Or is it but a still life
Of his own interpretation
Of the way that God has made us
In the image of his eye?
Is it the sculptor or the sculpture
Hero's face was gaunt and tanned
His sail was set in search of land
His life-raft, solely by him manned
Was guided by the tide
Heroine wore fleecy white
She beckoned like some savior bright
Shipwrecked sailors in the night
Were bid welcome to her side
Where one man's search must surely cease
I drew the blade across my wrist
To see how it would feel
Looked into the future
There was nothing to reveal
For we were just the product
Of the ever spinning wheel
Round and round we go
Come and see me
When you were young you were protected
When you were growing you were sheltered
But when you reached your adult years
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And you had no-one to rely on
No one to care for you
A lost soul in search of some kind of shelter and protection
Now where do you run
Where do you hide
When you need a hole to crawl in
Where do you go?
I found that in our darkest hour