I wonder if the sea gets tired,
of the never stopping light of day
Or the loud pangs of silence and all the stories it troubles to say.
Does it ever get too much,
in the darkness between the stars,
when we seek the comfort of the moon
and all its darkest charms.
Do the clouds know where they're bringing all the sorrows of existence?
Brought upon them by the troubled artists, aching in the distance.
Do you think the sea ever listens to the midnight monologues?
Does it ever crave the ending or the final epilogues?
Do you think the moon ever wishes;
he could calm the poor souls below,
Tell them not to worry with a simple wind of hello.
Do the clouds ever savour, discuss or exchange;
every little story, they picked up on the way ?
Do they ever mourn, remember or erase,
story tellers soul, voice or face?
Don't you think its selfish,
how we use them to forget,
yet no one ever wonders
what they use to vent.
Maybe it's one another.
Maybe it's no one at all.
Maybe the sea has its summer
Like the moon has the dawn.
