The reality slips away;
"don't lose your mind," she pleads,
Does she think that somethings wrong with your fantasy?
Everything you hold so dear and grasp so tight, it's just as stable as the night.
Ideals are like a battle scar; the stories change but not where the settings of the battles are.
Dogma changes or stays the same, rhetoric is like play dough shame, but in my gut it feels all the same.

The facts you spout are just in time.
The world changes without reason or rhyme.
The gods you hold like a golden chain don't even sway the game.
The people who look to the light are people, that's why they hold the sight-
the stories they tell to find what they mean, but they were out of breath and they had a dream.
The lights aren't real, but it's all the same.  We all try to feel something called love, whatever we've seen.