Keys to the heart are found
In every place and time,
a note or color or rhyme,
unleash the feelings there for ages bound
Forever here the world may rest,
in my mind alone,
to sin or to condone,
hypocrisy and peace have both digressed.
There are those other worlds,
the ones that hidden deep
in every note they sleep,
with every word these places are unfurled.
In mirrors and in pools we see them,
Life and death and sorrow,
peace one day and war the morrow
We watch without a word--we all believe them.
But reality is just another form of art;
of magic minds have wrought,
Others told the lies we bought,
and we tell our own from the depths of our black hearts.
A sin it is to lie, we have been told,
Yet lies are lies after all,
the greatest ones continue to enthrall,
and ensnare and enslave our young and old.
This is when the artisans were born,
Weavers of art and rhyme,
Creators of music and time,
We the courageous fight against the scorn.
God is dead, we always seem to think,
And maybe it is true,
Because you see, me and you
Are the gods of our worlds,
Though the brimstone may hurl,
You and I are worthy of sweet nectar gods do drink.
Forever we will tell the tales unsung,
Of the brave and craven,
Mona Lisa and Poe's The Raven,
And maybe the lessons we have learned will live on.
For without us, the world would be gone.
In every place and time,
a note or color or rhyme,
unleash the feelings there for ages bound
Forever here the world may rest,
in my mind alone,
to sin or to condone,
hypocrisy and peace have both digressed.
There are those other worlds,
the ones that hidden deep
in every note they sleep,
with every word these places are unfurled.
In mirrors and in pools we see them,
Life and death and sorrow,
peace one day and war the morrow
We watch without a word--we all believe them.
But reality is just another form of art;
of magic minds have wrought,
Others told the lies we bought,
and we tell our own from the depths of our black hearts.
A sin it is to lie, we have been told,
Yet lies are lies after all,
the greatest ones continue to enthrall,
and ensnare and enslave our young and old.
This is when the artisans were born,
Weavers of art and rhyme,
Creators of music and time,
We the courageous fight against the scorn.
God is dead, we always seem to think,
And maybe it is true,
Because you see, me and you
Are the gods of our worlds,
Though the brimstone may hurl,
You and I are worthy of sweet nectar gods do drink.
Forever we will tell the tales unsung,
Of the brave and craven,
Mona Lisa and Poe's The Raven,
And maybe the lessons we have learned will live on.
For without us, the world would be gone.
