Down yeavering way

 I lived Once before this all, t'was a chore
just a thin man in the small town Blyth
Not a lot of prospects then called off to war
fought a few years and stole my fair share

collectibles some off the old bodies
unluckily deceased in the fray thrill
Back in Blyth i'd tell heroic stories
about the men I'd saved and killed

enough free drinks at the tavern is the truth
to make a tippler out of me never mistook
Sold my old relics to thatch the holy roof
became a lowly coalminer at Durham crook

every night empty home no hi's or goodbyes
coughing and soiled problems pissing
for a decade of booze and beautiful lies
that singing fools would pay drink to listen

The old cabin so cold as January finishes
down yeavering way a no exit diminished
each year another gram of exhaustion
another bag of memories extinguished

The loneliness holds me up
on my motorcycle as I speed off
to another shift down the shaft
No fuel in the legs

parents dead
siblings gone
talking to myself
deeper into silence

The street outside howling and sinister
in these bland frightful fangfull winters
I swear black shuck looked up from a hedgerow
As I glanced out streetlight glow expose

silence a cold lake feeling the flow
freezing over tediously slowly
the wind that breathes down yeavering way
under my front door hampering my brave

tickling the fire shivers feel a price
shutting the water and the past inside ice
whispering all the lies i've told back to me
A quiet tax on the conscience weighing heavily