|
Closer than close you see yourself |
|
A mirrored image of what you wanted to be |
|
As each day goes by a little more |
|
You can't remember what it was you wanted anyway |
|
The fingers feel the lines they prod the space |
|
Your aging face the face that once was so beautiful |
|
Is still there but unrecognizable, private hell |
|
The man who you once loved is bald and fat |
|
And seldom in working late as usual |
|
Your interest has waned you feel the strain |
|
The bed springs snap on the occasions he lies upon you |
|
Close your eyes and think of nothing but private hell |
|
Think of Emma wonder what she's doing |
|
Her husband Terry and your grandchildren |
|
Think of Edward who's still at college |
|
You send him letters which he doesn't acknowledge |
|
'Cause he don't care, they don't care |
|
'Cause they're all going through their own private hell |
|
The morning slips away in a Valium haze |
|
And catalogues and numerous cups of coffee |
|
In the afternoon the weekly food |
|
Is put in bags as you float off down the high street |
|
The shop windows reflect play a nameless host |
|
To a closet ghost a picture of your fantasy |
|
A victim of your misery and Private hell |
|
Alone at 6 o'clock you drop a cup |
|
You see it smash inside you crack |
|
You can't go on but you sweep it up |
|
Safe at last inside your private hell |
|
Sanity at last inside your private hell |