Written by Mike Trim in response to the music, and featured in our videos and artwork
Driving Home
Motorway lights, sickly and dim,
yellow glare on a busted rim.
The hum of the road, that endless drone
head full of bass and a skull full of tone.
One AM, coffee's gone cold
rattling cans and a wheel that rolls.
Windows fogged with the breath of sweat
the stale perfume of old cigarette.
Eyes like lead, tires spin thin
nodding off to the dashboard's grin.
Stuck in a lane that nobody chose
lost in the hum where the motorway flows.
Buzz in my ear, beat in my chest
bassline pounding, no time for rest
Rearview mirror's got eyes of its own
ghosts of the chorus I left in the zone.
Pavement and pylons, neon and night
fading to black in the sodium light.
Another gig down, another dawn due
one road home, it's straight on through.
Frozen Light
Here in the deep heart of the winter
light grows quiet.
Leaning against branches stripped bare
laid open to sky, a pale,
unmoving breath drawn thin.
Look - this is how it waits,
between the edges of frost-heavy pines,
caught in silent places between longing.
How long it takes, this stillness
to gather, to fold into itself
until time itself is held
by its own slow ache for colour.
Yet something in this frozen light
speaks to us, calls without a sound,
holding winter like a thin flame
before it melts away.
Woven in Time
where the mountain splits
woven in rivers,
threads of water unspool
clear, untiring, unstoppable.
over smooth stones,
a thousand years polished
in their quiet conversation.
down they fall,
braiding air and light
into mist
and yet, nothing is hurried
water will get
where it's going
it always does.
11th Planet
Where do you hang,
silent among the old suns
cradled by nothing
but the absence of air,
and that dark, ever-widening sky?
For who are you waiting?
What voice will call you by name,
tenderly, as if brushing a stone
to hear its hum.
You have neither warmth nor root,
no winds move across
your abandoned plains.
You bear no seed, yet something
In you is still becoming.
A buried pulse stirs
the surface in ancient rhythms
that none will witness.
To be forgotten by the cosmos
a flame extinguished
in the ink of nothing,
a whisper in the language of stars
speaking secrets too vast to echo.
That light may never find you
uncharted, unwitnessed
and still, you are here.
Aziza Etude
The horizon stretches wide,
a canvas of molten coral
and ember reds
the sun hangs heavy,
fire softening to a whisper.
Aziz dreams here
of sunsets that hold her name
with a promise of skies aflame
only the evening knows.
The land hums softly,
Its pulse steady, eternal
the sun bows low, dreams scatter
stars in the growing dark.
Here everything waits,
the trees, dark and austere,
their branches raised not in defiance
but in prayer, so ancient,
it has forgotten its words.
Aziza is standing
at the edge of the light
breath folding into dusk
it is not hers, it simply is,
as is the sky melting into itself.
Shadows do not claim the night,
they cradle it
whispering into the night.
Dancing in the Flame
What are you, fragile, bending upward into the dark
Slender sinews, light pilling toward a heaven
that will not answer
Each leap, vanishing, flickering a prayer, not silenced
A hunger so pure, yet still it grows
From the last embers
of all that came before.
And I wonder, what dance do you reach for?
As you rise, as you fall
What is it you leave behind?
You leap in twisting arcs
Dissolving edges in hunger
Devouring even the air that bears you.
