i know not.
he's forgotten the words once again
struck down in a moment
and he's forgotten the melodies that once filled his heart [and the night]
like a lover's soft whisper
the boy stands strong against the dying of the night
holds fast his vigil over the storm
and the man softly weeps to himself,
alone [as he's always been]
the cold slowly seeping in
the clock ticks [in that way that it does]
without sound or motion
no substance to speak of
and the cries in the distance cannot be heard anymore
he turns the key, closes his eyes briefly,
as if to commit this moment to memory
or
to transmit to some far off film,
silent, without even piano
[long before they invented color]
for there are only shades of grey here,
some deep and some faint,
and if you look close enough,
you can almost see the dots that make up the film
as it rolls before your eyes
and he waits...
he's more afraid, now.
his senses are more acute
sharper, but, as always, there things are relative
and, as always, he wonders what is not seen when he looks with his eyes/heart,
[in][?]correctly thinking that it is how one truly sees.
more riddles than rhyme,
he has, this time
but isnt that all we have?
this time and no other?
what exists in that which we do not do?
what awaits in that which we might?
how do we know truth to be truly true?
is there a difference between wrong and right?
~*~
struck down in a moment
and he's forgotten the melodies that once filled his heart [and the night]
like a lover's soft whisper
the boy stands strong against the dying of the night
holds fast his vigil over the storm
and the man softly weeps to himself,
alone [as he's always been]
the cold slowly seeping in
the clock ticks [in that way that it does]
without sound or motion
no substance to speak of
and the cries in the distance cannot be heard anymore
he turns the key, closes his eyes briefly,
as if to commit this moment to memory
or
to transmit to some far off film,
silent, without even piano
[long before they invented color]
for there are only shades of grey here,
some deep and some faint,
and if you look close enough,
you can almost see the dots that make up the film
as it rolls before your eyes
and he waits...
he's more afraid, now.
his senses are more acute
sharper, but, as always, there things are relative
and, as always, he wonders what is not seen when he looks with his eyes/heart,
[in][?]correctly thinking that it is how one truly sees.
more riddles than rhyme,
he has, this time
but isnt that all we have?
this time and no other?
what exists in that which we do not do?
what awaits in that which we might?
how do we know truth to be truly true?
is there a difference between wrong and right?
~*~