There exists,
out there,
a desperate wish.
For man to return
to the realm
of fish.

Atlantis beckons
and it calls
forwards throughout
time.

Leaving along
it’s way
a subtle but
shining sign.

They say,
they say,
that our sacred souls
are derrived from
the grand world
of water.
Whilst our physical
bodies were crafted
from the finest
of grey clay.

But hey,
if I may,
I just want to say
that my soul
doesn’t feel that
wet to me, ay.
Rather it burns
in eternal fire
and the flames
of a world
so low.

Solo.
It’s slow.
And it doesn’t
feel like
it should flow,
certainly the
opposite of the sea.
Not wet.
And
not
free.