Lately, all the days have been turning into Mondays,
A job for the sun and a career for the moon,
A pencil sketched world with only shades of gray,
Stuck in sharp angles with no curves any soon.

Now Night is a Canson paper
Static with no signs of life

No room for poetry
nor the power of imagination

It's only a time for hours of sleep,
Eight to be precise

Behind the curtains
Dreams wait for an invitation

So I'm calling for all the stars to come nurse this disaster,
To bring back nights when staring out the window was enough,
I'm calling for them to patch all the hearts that ruptured,
To free those practical minds out of their handcuffs.