Death Of A Supernaturalist

“My father says there’s only one perfect view –
and that’s the view of the sky over our heads”
“I expect your father has been reading Dante”

See my solitude, where once was truth now only doubt
Touch my tortured skin, torn from within and from without
Kiss my blistered lips, my fingertips frost-bitten and grey
Heal my wound within, and watch the dead skin fall away

See what can’t be seen, between the table and the chair
Touch what can’t be touched, The National Trust don’t own the air
Kiss what can’t be kissed, this is the risk we have to take
Heal what can’t be healed, and feel the dead skin fall away

Only you and I know exactly how it feels
To unblinker a narrow mind
And by doing so reveal the obscurity of life
The intensity of dreams
Only you and I have realised exactly what it means

See the infant sun, whose time has come to climb the mist
Touch the autumn sky, burned by the supernaturalist
Kiss the purest lips, the morning slips into the day
Rising from the bed, we feel our dead skin fall away