Well I can disapprove
But what’s that mean to you?
We both will never move
So what then can I do?
I bite my tongue and let your voice
Become the leader in our chorus
Pretending that I have no choice
Knowing that it’s all an ouroboros.
I am sorry for the late reply
I live a day, and then I die
And some of you may wonder why
But it’s just another day in the cycle of a mayfly.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to be;
I never had a guide.
The person who was supposed to be
Learned to keep it all inside.
She lived rather a lot like me,
Never feeling like enough;
And now demands increase exponentially,
And she’s feeling like she’s had enough.
She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to be;
She never had a guide.
And now what are we supposed to be,
When we keep it all inside?
I hear you early in your morning
When it is still my night;
Your day, just beginning,
While I’m still enjoying moonlight.
When the sun at last peers through the window,
It will find me sleeping, turned away
Someplace far where it can’t go;
Thus begins my day!
And there I hunker down and hide
Until it’s safely noon,
So that time will soon be satisfied
And once again give me the moon.
And then at last I live again —
Until the sun decides to end the show;
And my moon leaves me in the end,
Just like every one I know.
I can only ever be
Recharged in lightning strikes:
Every moment in between
Is a low, waiting for the next spike.
It often comes in little things,
Such as a new favorite song;
Then, it’s a new spring,
And the apathy again is gone.
Finally, for a moment,
I dream of cities and people…
Until the next time I fall silent
And must stand waiting with a metal pole.
I show the world a garden,
But in my soul’s a graveyard.
There is ice upon the air;
And yet, the place is charred.
There grows there tongues of fire
Despite that constant cold;
It’s ringed all round with briar,
And the graves are crowned with mold.
Something of this place draws me:
The very chill has me enthralled.
I’m drawn further and further in:
I feel as if I’m called.
When I find what I am looking for,
It’s the same every time.
I clear away to read the graves;
And I find every one is mine.
Weeks down in the pit:
In a lake of fire that you lit.
But you struggle towards the top;
You don’t dare let yourself quit.
You rise far up above,
To the sun you’ve come to love:
Until blinded, back you drop
To this place you’ve made a home of.
It isn’t for the first time
And it won’t be for the last
That I sit here in the darkness
And I think about my past.
The things I never did;
The things I would have said;
The things I only dreamed of —
It means nothing in the end.
Because I sit here in the darkness;
In the darkness of my heart,
And you can’t light a candle
If you never even start.