The rotten window pane
the rotten window pain
the ought naught forgotten slain
dark colors twirling and dancing
scenes bent undone come prancing
trumpets blowing solemnly
men screaming silently
silence awaits us all
life is the wait before the fall,
and that is all.

There are birds carving a tree by my window
They're carving the tree into their own image
Oh how they fly and flit about
Hiding themselves within
Don't think I don't see you birds
Don't think I don't know what you play
Don't think I don't see what becomes you
The birds carve until all that is left is the birds themselves.
They all fly away. They all fly away.

Writing takes place on a black and white page
No room for gray upon the stage
What if what we want to say
can only be said in a world of gray?
Are we are limited by our canvasses?