Is it true we all have wheels of
Seamless belief in corrosive dreams.
Those years within minute clouds
Which bend and flex their essence,
Within a powdery shade of white,
Even the skies have learned to be contrived
And every night we watch the day
Through it’s heavenly journey,
A mist in the silence speaks more than I know.
Can it be that we all see the spirits of
Castles which made it to songs before
We learned to chant the rules
Which bound them amongst greys,
And blues which only fade inside,
When we open our eyes to reveal the strings.
Every whimsical image melting freely,
Into the next pretence of chance,
But now there’s a beat of rules,
Rhythmical gestures behind our eyes,
Before we look up there’s yesterday
Trying to rain down, but the skies wait.
Pretty words are a void