Day after day, just before night
a concert takes place as birds take flight.
The silence is loud, but the melody sweet,
vision so beautiful; takes me off my feet.
A symphony of light shine on through,
glorious shades of yellows, pinks, purples, and blue.
No one can hear,
not a sound comes to ear,
but I sit by waiting
until something starts playing.
I run to the trees after the last beat;
I watch with wonder as fireflies take the place of bees; new rhythms that bleat.
No light but that of stars could guide me to this foreign place; like a child's dream of Mars.
So lovely and smashing;
people who call that penchant childish are the reason kids like me start backlashing.
Grown-ups forget it and say it's something they disrelish.
Why can't they see anything but the opinion they establish.
That idea stops and makes me ponder;
Is it true, or do they just wonder,
"what happened to the me that was younger?"
Life when you're older fills with responsibility bolder then when you were younger, living with days funner; those days shoved away but the feelings still blurt.
Work and work and work until nothing left of love; just hurt.
People you once embraced left because life took place; nothing but empty space: life turned clockwork.
You think of the days, you did nothing but played and chased and made friends; you weren't prepared for what you were faced.
People leave, come, and rarely stay:
memories with those ones start, they solemn replay.
Some of the one in a million still live like kids;
grown up physically, still have a heart with heart, that is.
No amount of work could make them start stressing,
because at the end of the day, they're greeted from the sky with a blessing.