Somewhere Down The Mazy Lane

The original version of Somewhere Down The Mazy Lane has previously been published in All of Me Vol. III, courtesy of Shadow Spark Publishing.

Listen to Somewhere Down The Mazy Lane by Richard Charles Stevens

Listen to Sentinel by Mike Oldfield

As She warmed her hands upon the swelter of the flame
The ice around her frozen heart began to melt away
Dismembered by a night with no remembrance of day
Burning in the embers of dismay

Had She entered fray with the repent of slave lamented
Then every ventured pain would lend no end to disarray
Called herself a brave
There was no question that She meant it
Maybe this was simply nature’s way

Could it be She wouldn’t be as happy and contented as She dreamed
Would this mean She could’ve been resented less by laying wide awake
Felt so apprehensive as She pensively debated
A destiny dressed carelessly as fate

As She warmed her hands upon the swelter of the flame
Suddenly the blood began to swell within her veins
In amazement She commenced to bleed with fresh incentive
Called herself a brave
There was no question that She meant it
Maybe this proposed the only way

Should She bleed another pint
Then She would scarcely make it through the night
Be stone cold dead by break of day
Open casket
Guest at her own wake
Brokenhearted gesture
To a vesture in perpetual decay

She had been the kind inclined to give opposing take
Here within the river blind
She felt obliged to brace the tide
Red procession trailing in her wake as way of testifying
Death’s design did not her own translate

Had She entered fray denied prerequisite of faith
Then undercurrent flurry would have hurried her away
Called herself a brave
There was no question that She meant it
Courage and conviction made her great
Within her jurisdiction irresistible depictions of a paradise long lost predicted destiny would rescue She from death’s decree of fate

As She warmed her hands upon the swelter of the flame
The ice around her rosebud lips began to melt away
Called herself a brave
There was no question that She meant it
Maybe thoughts of ending it were never quite the way nature intended
Could it be She wouldn’t be forsaken on this day
Should She take one final leap of faith
As She warmed her hands upon the swelter of the flame
Paradise once lost She then reclaimed

She had been the kind inclined to give opposing take
Here within the river blind
She felt obliged to brace the tide
Red procession trailing in her wake as way of testifying
Death’s design did not her own translate

Somewhere down the mazy lane
Some way from beaten track
The mystic river bleeds to speak her name
She once famed to brace the tide
Rising from the breaking waves
Red procession trailing in her wake

Paradise once lost She then reclaimed
Red procession trailing in her wake

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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