Sometimes the world is white,
Colorless and on flight
With a million, billion tiny stars,
Who really aren't so tiny after all.
Who really chose blue for the sky, anyways?
Some painter's eye,
Not satisfied with conventional things,
Like butterflies.
Or kings with their wings-
They flap around too high for him.
Kings' men too low-
Like the children found in the crowd of a well loved show.
The vocalist vomits words-
They mop it up, loved verses
Shouted at the tips of their tongues,
Out at sea.
Or was it see?
I can't really remember,
Everything is so confused these days;
Who really chose blue for the sky, anyways?
Yellow is a much more fine color.
More satisfactory to feel.
Mellow yellow.
Blue is feeling blue-
And maybe that's why the world is so sad.
Maybe the sky would be red if the world more mad-
But let's be honest, the world is already full of red.
The blood in our veins,
The dead laid to rest underground.
Ever stopped to wonder if their minds are still breathing?
I do, too.
But they're stuck with a decaying body.
And we're stuck with blue.