Room Without Windows

I learned to call it quiet
I learned to call it fine
I built a house of habit
And I lived inside the line

The days came dressed as each other
I wore them all the same
I stopped expecting answers
I forgot I had a name


There’s a kind of peace in shrinking
Till you fit inside the frame
A photograph of someone
You can no longer claim

I made a truce with smallness
I shook hands with the grey
I told myself that emptiness
Was just another way


And the walls became my skin
And the silence became my voice
And I called the cage a kingdom
And I called the lack a choice
I don’t remember closing
Every window, every door
I just woke up one morning
Not knowing what the light was for


Sometimes something flickered
At the edges of the dream
A scent I couldn’t place
A half-remembered stream

But I’d learned to turn away
Before the ache could start
I was fluent in forgetting
It was the language of my heart


Is this what it means to live?
This slow agreeing to disappear?
This calling the numb sacred?
This genuflecting to the fear?


I didn’t know that I was waiting
I didn’t know I’d stopped
I thought the well was empty
I didn’t know I’d locked the top

But somewhere underneath the floor
Beneath the years of stone
Something still remembers
Something’s making its way home


And I can almost hear it now
A voice I used to know
Calling from a country
I left so long ago…

70’s, psychedelic, haunting, punchy,acoustic,hypnotic, male voice,female voice