The Well of the Source

from by Cole Sullivan



If music is my wife and you are my mistress,
Who am I to define love?

If the movement of my feet only pushes the pedals,
How many miles have I gone?

If my hands were made of stone, I could break down any wall,
But I'd never feel the pulse beat in your neck.

If I see a million faces, but I only love myself,
I don't deserve your respect.

If my voice can hit the notes that ring a warning out to you,
It's your choice to harmonize -
Or play that dissonant chord, over,
That we've heard for a century or so.
Though the melody seems obvious,
We will look back and see the truth in our hind-sight.

Though the cup of the Queen spills the blood of the Mother,
She makes the children clean it up.

The animals they eat no longer walk on their own haunches,
They're just dragged across the grass.

This taste of False Fortune, it still lingers,
Long after my last meal.

For I'm not what I own, but I am what I grow and,
What I make with my two hands.

I want to know all that we can do, and I'll share it with you.
For your hands, they're my hands, too,
And they can do anything we want -
Just envision and believe,
That we can build a place where we will live,
Where we aren't forced to fight for happiness.


from White Overtone Wind, released September 12, 2012



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Cole Sullivan Richmond, Virginia

I am nothing without all of you.

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