We see the future,
through the strokes of a painter,
the rhymes of a poet,
the songs of the unheard,
the pictures stored in light.
Stories black and white.
Every stroke I see, I see the color red,
Or is it black? I can't even tell anymore.
Cause everything seems dark.
When the writer reads his tale.
The characters fall apart,
The tension too hard.
Good things are for all to see,
But an artist risks to differ.
Grief, pain and suffering never left,
It has only gotten thicker.
Thicker is my skin, I blocked my mind,
So the future would never have to know.
We are way ahead maybe at the end of the line,
With more people, we're more alone.