Skidding on ice under a yellow moon,
Hearing confessions of a drunken loon,
Drunk no more, or so he says,
Middle move made in a game of chess.
Bitter wind bites as we slide through the night,
Deductions made in darkest respite,
Grand plans elaborated in excited deception,
To see all and feel all the hopeful conception.
A year now past looked upon with waste,
Regrets a-many, made in haste,
Betrayals begotten but not yet forgotten,
Betrayals bestowed bring feelings rotten.
Our conclusion skids into parting view,
A handshake click and we know what to do,
Skate forward on ice till it all melts away,
Look ahead, not back, live only for today.
To spend ten years living, and ten surveying,
‘Cause the ten spent dreaming lie behind, decaying.
(myself and Anto Gallagher were chatting after seeing Sherlock Holmes about what the future held for us - Ice is the conversation and the circumstances surrounding it).
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