As reflections dance off pools of crimson,
and eyes of grey notice only black and white...
'cause reflected shadows seem so much alive-
and contorted branches will no longer choose to hide,
concealing so much in an inkwell of blood,
the words we never had the chance to say,
seem to always become the most important script.
it's so much easier to treat the symptoms,
then discover any genuine cure...
and it's easier to hold onto a dream;
if you know that it won't come true.
And this our twisted lullaby,
welcomes death to follow sleep.
as death sings our favorite song,
we sing along; eternally grateful.
as we find comfort in love's requiem,
living out three tales of broken fate.
but still, before death we must wonder:
would any of this matter,
if it were lived out by someone else?
think of all the things my words could be,
if I were only telling another story?
look at the colors you could see...
if you believed in something more,
then this diluted dream of black and white.
those living in the shadows,
still remember feeling the light-
that led them there in the first place.
and those that reside within that light,
try to ignore the shadows it casts;
but even the most ignorant people;
can't see anything without some contrast.
and in this sea of mortal prosaic belief,
with value held in possessions and rituals,
I hover within myself searching-
but for what I don't know just yet.
should I be looking for some tangible reason?
something I might decide to hold on to...
between the screaming heartbeats,
and the whisper of greedy bloodshed
I wonder if we were all born so jaded,
and I think I"ve lost my reason...
I fell from the grace you wished me into,
and I believe i was meant to fall,
but does losing all trust in life-
mean putting faith in death?