THE SINGER by Barrie Purnell


She sang her songs, she made her mark
But lived her life inside the dark,
No moon to shed its silvery light
To help her through the black and lonely night.
She was going down, was in freefall
To a river of treasons beyond recall,
Wanted to be who she was before,
A guilt free, visionary troubadour. 

Then Vodka’s voice whispered in her ear,  
‘You know that I can kill your fear,
Without the comfort that I bring
Could you ever write, would you ever sing?’
She knew well that voice’s liquid charms
Surrendering into its arms,
It held her heart, she could write again,
A half way happy, with an edge of pain.

She wrote to lose herself in rhyme
There was a scar in every line,
Writing of love she’d never see
Dreaming of the girl she used to be.
Escaping from the depths of her regret
The words she wrote were darker yet.
The hurt was all that she could sing,
Her reality was an ugly thing.

She tried to escape the misery,
Taking back what she’d given free.
Skeletons of lovers killed by her art
Hung from the gallows of her heart.
Her life ran too close to the fire
Over broken glass and razor wire.
She sank to an ultimate defeat,
Back to Black on infinite repeat.

[Back to Black by Amy Winehouse video - click.]