(In The) Black Room by Peter Hammill
I was thinking about thinking but it really didn't get me very far,
So I thought I'd throw a Tarot but I only got the Priestess and the Star.
There's a shadow cast between the future and the past:
The room and I agree to buy some time...
The cards don't tell truth nor lies,
Only options and cusp lines
The furniture in the black room.
I've been thinking abour acid, but, it seem there's not a reason tobelieve.
I don't make a vital breakthrough and it walks me like a dog upon a lead.
It's all unreal and, the way I feel,
I'd like to try and make it on my own...
Going to the feeling is find:
I really have me a good pleasure cruise.
But, deep in my mind,
I'm no better or worse, just open to the walls.
Paint peels in the black of my room
I'm only talking about myself, ordering my treasure shell,
Documenting these present feelings as the future sets me reeling...
What I'll be is what I am,
I'm simply trying not to sham or fake.
Use vision as sense and not as crutch!
It doesn't mateer all that much;
Whatever happens we'll all survive.
I'm only trying not to pawn my life.
When I'm (maybe) old and strait-laced, shall I then deny all that I feel?
In words of bitter compromise, re-smelt the wrath that's in my eyes
Be a hermit then?
Or be a miser?
Be a man who hasn't managed yet to write his rules?
The future holds my hand in the room...
Well, then my ghosts shall steer down through the years
And lay a hand upon my soul