In a time before people, at the dawn of man kind.
"They" were brewing us, body and mind.

A  sprinkle of wit and a pinch of good luck.
"Please pass down the emotional muck".

Some of "they" were good at what they had to do.
Some of them less exact, careless in making our stew.

Going to the extremes was a favorite of a few.
And that is why Some of us are very blue.

"Ill throw in A pinch of zest and a bucketful of sorrow, and an
Annoying tendency to always want to borrow."

"My favorite recipe is: charisma, good looks and toxic waste"
"Ya know! The ones that usually attract the goodhearted that are keen to make haste"

"And my favorite one is for the ones always pursuing what isn't meant to be"
"The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of ambition I think i'll put in three"

Such is the talk in their heavenly sphere
Perhaps things aren't all that different down here?

We have forgotten entire worlds and only remember those forever present
We have worked very hard and ventured very far and forgotten a lot of it
Many of the memories only surface when they're splashed with relevance
We found entire kingdoms but they melted away in the blink of an eye
We know many things and many stories that we cannot remember at all
We're forgetting epiphany's that we are having, and our found loved ones
Many many valuable memories are trapped in the corner of our eyes
And when we cry and don't know why it's because they are trying find us

I just saw a shooting star
Falling down from afar
The falling's entrancing
The vision's enhancing
They drop from nowhere
To nowhere
No mortar
No blast
Just falling
Dropping beauty
For a split second
Of eternity
A grace note
That gets lost
In nothing

The windows are barred, and the fire alarm is broken.
Perhaps these measures of safety, are merely a token.
Sent to stoke  careful ways, and to make  regular patrons.
The note that is in between the staves, is neither here nor there thus are the knaves.
They often play sinners and lure them in with promises, of the outlaws much craved solemnity, thus leading them to their graves.

I always thought that weeds where flowers, planted by the fairy folk.
And the thorns blunt daggers, a secret inner joke.
Left to taunt the ones that can remember dancing round the oak.

The garden's beauty's mocking, the maidens only half fair.
A memory left over from a time when no one would dare...

The garden pool's half empty, you're smile reflects a glare.
The garden's bird feeders are empty and every living creature must beware.

The garden is poisonous , the unicorns now a mare.
A shadow left over from a time cradled with care...

And every day is meaningless, and every thrones a broken chair.
The tower that you searched for your whole life begins to cave as you alight the very first stair.

Plunge once more into the darkness, find again your  sacred lull.
Their you'l find hail on fire, here you are your greatest foe.
Vicious madness comes to find you, echoing from down below.
"Come here darling come and find me?", it rings inside of your skull.
Kiss the darkness to combine you, unconscious and out of woe.

Floating in destitute from joy, with an abhorrence for all the vivacious living.
Making fastidious efforts that lead to naught, as life proves to be trying.
Her broken hands try to create but they cannot today, and the chances of it ever being are bleak.