If tears are comparable to the sky raining
And supposedly the rainbow comes after the storm
What happens with a sadness not waning?
Does such beauty still appear to a heart so torn?
A week goes by where everything is hazy
All hours of the day the mind fixes on one thing only
What happens when you get tired, when Love gets lazy?
Paying the price for Its fault with nights so . . .
If the sound of a live heart is just like a drum
And suppose that one day the membrane rips
The silence that follows, not a single harp string strummed
Quiet and peaceful like their corpses asleep in their crypts.
They say the body repairs itself during sleep
But what happens to one such mind
Restles as night, it can only weep
About things that are perhaps best left behind.