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Philosophical cow dung on the life of little Ms. Imperfectly Fine.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

It's all a game


Strange as it may seem
Strangers in a dream
Of a world full of chances
In a whirl pool of senses

Light first colored the room
Brightness covered the gloom
cotton candy melting slow
caught in the sandy pelting snow

she's wearing feathers for her flight
he's tearing letters with his sight
she's carving out a heart to give
he's starving for a dream to live

And the itch from inside etched scars
Of pitch-black rides to fetch stars
Still nothing was strange; it’s all a game
Nothing has changed; it’s all the same