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.

I'll keep you in my sight
with this lonely light I hold aloft.
I'll ward away the dark and fright;
I'll safeguard when your soul is lost.

I'll keep you from harm within my arms
that circle round your shaking form.
No need for tears or wide eyed alarm;
My arms will shield you from the storm.

I don't mind sharing this lonely cross,
whose bearer's face looked so forlorn,
Let me safeguard those tearful eyes so lost.
My arms will shield you from the storm.

Blossoms shine the same
pink as the horizon sheds.
Sunsets mark her eyes.

Sunlight dreads retreat
from black lungs that weep and bend.
Watching from the shade.

In every stillness lies a whisper.
Gyrating bodies smoulder quicker
than the wick that sickly flickers
from the wind that will not kiss her.

In every kiss there is a silence,
ruled over by tapping tyrants
that exist within the quiet,
No one denies their raucous violence.

In every mind there is a fear,
slow to speak and hard to hear.
In every heart that safe appears,
there are veins that bleed soft tears

and through all the lonely years, I've found
nothing is as kind as it appears. I frown

as she whispers in her sleep, through dreams silent and severe.
Her heartbeat softly weeps, and her demon softly cheers.

Subtle melody,

Wrack my body. Let me see the Springtime's sunny day.
The wind was once my muse, but now my music's gone away.
Ease the sting of thumbscrews;
cut through weary moods of black and grey.
Where once fingers danced and called the wind,
now those hands can't hold a violin
aloft over my heretic's heart,
and broken fingers cannot play.

The wind will sing no pagan songs upon these broken strings.
Where once I was the prince,
now in sorrow, crown your king!
Fingers once waltzed with the wind,
but through jealous glances
of bitter men,
No song again is ever ushered in.
The sky will never sing
again.