Difference

Art thou weary, art thou languid...

That dark place

Paper lamps, and blinder shades.

The worst place to be.

But it's where we've all laid.

Your head hangs high, high above the clouds.

And my voice goes far, singing much too loud.

Because this, is what I do.

I write these songs

Not for you, not for me, but to be something different.

But nothing is ever different.

See, I took a break and I took a look into the distance.

All I saw was a busted lock, and a major nuisance.

So I made my way back, took the long path home, feeble and gutted.

That hot one burned like flaming coals, raining from the sky.

But in my eyes

You've always been the same, sad song.

And I always sang along.

But not this time, because it's never different.

I felt relief, as the words begin to pour, as they stopped for far too long.

Then I recalled the way that the fall felt, stinging cold, like that singular wasp.

The butterflies turned..

Old references are made for the returning, but those don't come often.

And my words lack rhythm, melody, and harmony.

But it's hypocrisy

To believe in what you believed

That love can conquer everything.

Yet you never made things different.

If anybody reads enough to tell me what I mean, I'd love to know.

Because while I may know now, I won't know later on.

But there's a flow, a sequence of events to follow.

The river flows for us all, and takes us away.

But I lied today.

And I prayed for something better off.

And I heard Jacob blow that horn.

And the walls around me fell.

But it never felt different.

But it never was different.

So it'll never be different.

My God, what's different?