In darkest thoughts,
Amongst the nights,
The dreams that we perceive of rights
To comprehend and feel delight,
For faces bright that now depart,
That once again remind a draft
With handwriting yet so clear,
That proves the lie which we now hear.
We hear their laughter
And see their sorrow.
It is our hearts they try to borrow.
For even in the brightest days,
Or in the coldness of the moon’s gaze,
Their masks are nothing but small plays,
That would decay by the new sun’s grace.
Were they sensations of our mind?
Mere illusions that now hide?
There is just silence for the answer,
For all that’s left is a new dancer,
Covered in clothing so familiar,
Yet somewhat alien and peculiar,
In reference to what we know,
To what once saw we as a law.
Alas, there is yet single struggle,
That one experiences in the hustle,
Of ever-changing crowds so loud.
Is it just them that change their nature,
Or am I part of this creation…
