Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.
Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
Al Coda
Let's try this again,
ere this depression,
this lonely obsession,
eats away at my brain.
Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.
Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
Al Coda
Let's try this again,
ere this depression,
this lonely obsession,
eats away at my brain.
Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.
