Is It The Station Of' The Lost And Lonely Soul…? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Where is the peace…?
In the whirrings of my mind,
Cartwheel after cartwheel
Even in these depths of rem sleep,
There is no slumber.
…Dreams come thick and fast:
As the snoring, begins its thunder…

Why even now the world whistles
In the silence of this nightmare my lord
And even now, sleeping, hot-pulses
Race like a train, with a dead river
Onboard rolling through, empty-carriages.
O' now babies are being born …wailing
In my arms awaiting, their mother.

'Lord what's this crazy station, called'?
Here where plastic surgeons…
Is working-out of' a dusty bivouac?
Doing, jigsaw body-part transplants.
With all these sights and sounds,
Now grinning, Lord, what are all these
Experimental insanities, for…?

O' am I just a mangy-dog running loose off the leash?
Where days blink-out of a bird-cage
O' here I see an albatross following me overhead.
O' lord, I call him my own Damien angel
But, lord he just walks-on the millet's of my life
Crushes it without morals, he's just a playful widow.
Making all kinds; of mischief with the living and dead.

'And, I'm just a red-flag, ready to fall...
Lord, what's this crazy station, called'?
Am I just a mangy-dog running loose off your leash?
Listening to the silence; whistling endlessly mad.
Experimental insanities, whistling's endlessly mad like a thief.
In my head 'Lord what's this crazy station, called'?
Is it the station of' The Lost and Lonely Soul…?