The Fisherman

Written January 17, 2011 Sit down in an empty room No one makes a sound Unless I ring the alarm and sound all the sirens The angel of darkness swoons to reel in its catch If he leads, then I'll follow suit Preacher preach to me now, while I'm being lifted off of the ground Rhetoric can't raise the dead So pull me back before he reels me in with steady hands and fills my mind with lead I'll leave my best regards to all of those who tried to snap his line in attempts to reel me back But friends are only friends You can throw me in an ambulance but as soon as you close the doors I'll be gone into the weight of my regrets Following the angel of death into the darkest depths Until I see the light of all that's left But at what point do I cross the line in the sand? How do I know that this could just be the roll of the tide whispering in my ear? Oh how it digs into my mind Torn between which side of brightness I will find Split between the bony hand of disconnect and the flabby flesh of past regret There I remain waiting for a miracle, looking for a sign Or am I too far for miracles, am I too blind for signs? Oh have I let the artist down?