Cry of the Stars

Where would you go if I told you I didn’t know?
Would you be sad if I threw it all away?
What would you see me as if I pretended not to know?
What would you think if you knew I was naive?
How would you react if I ran away?
Could it be any better if we knew the question?
What do I do when my ignorance can’t get me by?
Where would this fool go without the light?
Have the answers all run away?

The brown mouse scurries over your foot,

as the pillows eat up every crumb

Your nose dances in the air

Remembering yourself plaid and mistaken

The Sun plays with Death,

as the birds fly by

Tomorrow pretends not to listen

Forever you'll be searching for the number

Everyone tells you the flowers speak lies,

but you know better than them

Picture her under the floorboards,

with lighters and treasure

Forget the cities and their worries

Look in the sea for the one who knows no truth,

the world fast asleep to the lull

London will tell you not to go by

They told me not to judge a book by its cover

But you know me better than that

The clock's arms are tired

Folly and the Fool sing hand in hand

A passionate red color that replace the once healthy pink,
the inflammation quite unpleasant
An almost to the extent of terrifying cough echoes in the room,
which nearly every body flees
Tissues of pearl and cream nestle happily around the house conveniently,
where the kitty finds great pleasure
A sickly sight is left watching television programs on the computer,
packets of Dayquil, Nyquil, Advil, and Benadryl (plus any other medication that ends with an “ill” sound) scatter around oddly

Alas! I have but finite eyes
That cannot pierce through worldly veils
To see Your glory, shining here
Father, lend my heart new eyes
That I might see, and love You more

And in like manner, too, my ears
They cannot pierce through worldly veils
To hear Your tender call to me
Father, lend my heart new ears
That I might hear, and love You more

The way to You lies open, now
And what shall hold me back?
Crucify myself, and let
Me run to You alone.

Server writer's block,
defeat is sadly quite scarce
Victory please come

--

I haven't written,
for nearly a month
Something is missing,
and so is its identity
Inspiration is easy to come by,
but taking it is the hard part
Grasping the ideas,
Catching the rhyme
Finding the words