Shambala By Lee Cassanell

Under the sadness of what might have been an old poem lies torn in the drawer of my dreams The lost words rest unsaid scratched with ink on the page which I wrote at the dawn of my formative days Far away with the fairies and gone with the wind through the valley of weed to the palace of sin were all chalices brim and all hellions drink to a beer in the sun at the end of the week. It was cheap but we dug in the depths of the deep to find coins that had slipped down the side of the seat, Cigarettes never spare but we shared them like bread knowing Jesus himself liked a smoke now and then

And my pen was ablaze with the embers of love that had scorched all my thoughts and hard boiled in my blood, I was good with the pain and I learnt over time to turn fear into foes and forebode into rhymes I was fine writing lines with a heart and a beat I grew shaggy long hair and a beard with a pleat but my feet couldn't settle, I had to move on so I bought a guitar and wrote this little song.

Oh Mercy I'm thirsty And thirty next week I went out at sixteen And I've not been back since Even now, as I sing this I'm in-between drinks I've got wine in the rack And cold beer in the fridge This is no way to live But I've no-one to blame It's the price that I pay For my pitcher of fame And when that glass is smashed And I've drank the tap dry I'll throw clothes in a bag Drop a note on side Blow a kiss to the loves And the drugs and the strife

Head on off down the road Leave this life far behind I'll walk on through the fields And the valleys of green Rest my back on the trees Wash my face in the streams Travel up to the mountains And climb up the rocks Cast my eyes on the earth From the highest of tops Then I'll strike up a match And stare into the flame Forget all that has passed Give myself a new name Build a house made of stone Collect wood for the fire And live out my last days In the Sun of Shambala

Under the sadness of what might have been an old poem lies torn in the drawer of my dreams The lost words rest unsaid scratched with ink on the page which I wrote at the dawn of my formative days.... Copyright ©2008  Lee Cassanell

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