in three acts
Light cascades upon the silvery dunes,
the regally glistening diamond dust
scintillating with the secrets of saccharine wealth,
ere a whimsical wave crashes - anon! -
washing the the world to its wooden soul,
the night into oblivion.
The realm is bare,
no scenery save the spark -
the creator of worlds! -
which sinfully shines from the audience.
Yet the solemn sun seems to be of a harder cast
as it apathetically begins another repetition,
spiritlessly slipping through the somber sky
to the ceaseless beat which resounds
maugre the missing musicians.
As a pendulum it swings across the stage
ere steadying on a time of day
which appears almost perfectly imperfect,
rendering the realm in a transient light that
impishly vanishes once captured by any lens.
And it is just off center we cast our sullen eyes
for oh! it is the exquisite ingenou,
the epitome of eterne youth,
whose aria beautifully blends with the carried tune -
the result of painstaking practice.
Behind her visage of the most august snow
shine a pair of entrancing saphires -
the destroyers of worlds! -
in an icy gaze.
Yet she appears to have aged with the passing years -
her cherubic face creased with knowledge,
no longer capable of being masked between sets -
as the innocence has vanished from life.
Her halo fell in the second act
yet she must continue on,
each cue to be hit with perfection -
we must have perfection! -
but her words lack soul,
the depth of honesty and emotion.
She no longer cares about the desperation,
the desire, the agony,
for she had dreams of her own! -
each night filled with infinite prospects,
every star wished upon.
And everything could be perfect
if she simply closed her eyes -
she could make the world disappear -
but each night was just a lie,
a life which inevitably died with the dawning day.
She can no longer take the pain
of one more meaningless morning,
the ultimate letdowns of another life,
so she refuses to let herself be hurt
but merely lies awake - alone!
And all she can manage to cry
to the passing stars,
the angels of dreams,
is how inconstant the moon appears -
isn't the silvery light just terrible -
as it reminds her of another tomorrow.
Another somber week of graying colors
and faded phantasms
which forevermore ebb from this world
yet she still looks to time for peace?
oh paradoxical escapism!
For its just another month
a few more days
a couple hours to wish away
yet the stars that dance ere her eyes
are full of dreams and hopes
and all those romantic little lies
which light the jaded morning sky
as curtains fall
now fade to gray. . .
the regally glistening diamond dust
scintillating with the secrets of saccharine wealth,
ere a whimsical wave crashes - anon! -
washing the the world to its wooden soul,
the night into oblivion.
The realm is bare,
no scenery save the spark -
the creator of worlds! -
which sinfully shines from the audience.
Yet the solemn sun seems to be of a harder cast
as it apathetically begins another repetition,
spiritlessly slipping through the somber sky
to the ceaseless beat which resounds
maugre the missing musicians.
As a pendulum it swings across the stage
ere steadying on a time of day
which appears almost perfectly imperfect,
rendering the realm in a transient light that
impishly vanishes once captured by any lens.
And it is just off center we cast our sullen eyes
for oh! it is the exquisite ingenou,
the epitome of eterne youth,
whose aria beautifully blends with the carried tune -
the result of painstaking practice.
Behind her visage of the most august snow
shine a pair of entrancing saphires -
the destroyers of worlds! -
in an icy gaze.
Yet she appears to have aged with the passing years -
her cherubic face creased with knowledge,
no longer capable of being masked between sets -
as the innocence has vanished from life.
Her halo fell in the second act
yet she must continue on,
each cue to be hit with perfection -
we must have perfection! -
but her words lack soul,
the depth of honesty and emotion.
She no longer cares about the desperation,
the desire, the agony,
for she had dreams of her own! -
each night filled with infinite prospects,
every star wished upon.
And everything could be perfect
if she simply closed her eyes -
she could make the world disappear -
but each night was just a lie,
a life which inevitably died with the dawning day.
She can no longer take the pain
of one more meaningless morning,
the ultimate letdowns of another life,
so she refuses to let herself be hurt
but merely lies awake - alone!
And all she can manage to cry
to the passing stars,
the angels of dreams,
is how inconstant the moon appears -
isn't the silvery light just terrible -
as it reminds her of another tomorrow.
Another somber week of graying colors
and faded phantasms
which forevermore ebb from this world
yet she still looks to time for peace?
oh paradoxical escapism!
For its just another month
a few more days
a couple hours to wish away
yet the stars that dance ere her eyes
are full of dreams and hopes
and all those romantic little lies
which light the jaded morning sky
as curtains fall
now fade to gray. . .