Peter Hammill

The house with no Door.

There's a house with no door and I'm living there; at nights it gets cold and the days are hard to bear inside. There's a house with no roof, so the rain creeps in, falling through my head as I try to think out time. I don't know you, you say you know me; that may be so, there's so much that I am unsure of. You call my name, but it sounds unreal, I forget how I feel: my body's rejecting the cure. There's a house with no bell but then nobody calls; I sometimes find it hard to tell if any are alive at all outside. There's a house with no sound; yes, it's quiet there - there's not much point in words if there's no-one to share in time. I've learned my lines, I know them so well, I am ready to tell whoever will finally come in of the line in my mind that's cold in the night....It doesn't seem right when there's that little dark figure running. There's a house with no door and there's no living there: one day it became a wall...well I didn't really care at the time. There's a house with no light, all the windows are sealed, overtaxed and strained - now nothing is revealed but time I don't know you, you say you know me - that may be so, there's so much that I am unsure of. You call my name, but it sounds unreal; I forget how I feel, my body's rejecting the cure.Won't somebody help me?

Copyright P.Hammill