chapter seven – the island

maybe it's just you and me.
maybe we're just nobody.


you walk out in the pouring rain
past where those children used to play.
those scenes you've seen inside your brain,
they make a grown man strain to keep it sane.

had you prepared yourself for this,
you still would've found yourself dismissed.
it's like the world's gone amiss,
but take a chance and jump in the abyss.

we're halfway into our lives;
long gone are the drugs and the night drives.
we've kissed goodbye to our wives,
no shelter, seeing just who survives.

maybe it's just you and me,
maybe it's just nobody.
some people's lives are replete,
while other people die on the street.

maybe it's just you and me.
maybe we're just nobody.


you see through the fog and the grey mist
old names and old flames you'd kissed.
in a way, they grow now each minute,
bigger than real life as you lived it.

your memory's just like a drug,
a sirens' call that will tug,
but now you're tied to the mast.
you live now and not in the past.

time says “i told you so,"
but you know time has no flow,
just moments stitched at the seams,
discrete like daylight and dreams.

maybe that's just you and me.
maybe we're just nobody.
some people's lives are replete,
and other people die on the street.

maybe it's just you and me.
maybe we're just nobody.


you stumble through haze and mud,
but water's thinner than blood.
you press on. where? you don't know
until you see that red glow

coming from inside a cave.
you calm your mind and behave.
lurid, bright filament lights,
you never seen such sights in your life.

a giant cast-iron gate
separates you from the cave.
you pull with all of your might,
knowing that something's inside.

maybe that's just you and me,
maybe we're just nobody.
the lights shut off as you knock.
you see the gate come unlocked.