Songwriter, guitarist and composer

No-One Here But Me

Self-sabotage and being one’s own worst enemy.

A roof that keeps the rage in and the reach of lovers out,

their best intentions dead outside the door.

A vessel bubbles over with the sum of all my doubt,

the spillage fills the fractures in the floor.

Broken glass on the stairs,

skins grace the walls of every room,

gates are locked from outside.

Ropes swing over chairs

but every sense says much the same;

there's no-one here but me.

High and low I've hunted for a third hand to accuse

but a telling lack of evidence appears.

A single set of fingerprints, tracks that match my shoes

and a lonely explanation volunteers.

A web of cracks distorts the views,

nails choke the breath of every pane,

the fence grows every morning.

The floor's a forest of screws

but every sense says much the same;

there's no-one here but me.

Clocks are running fast,

taps offer nothing more than dust,

mirrors mock the portrait.

The attic's open day has passed

but the cellar sings a siren's song of sin,

and no-one hears but me.

Written by Del Scott Miller