Nights like this, it's hard to tell
where the ink ends and the bruises start
As if every rhyme, and each new line
was previously written on your heart
inscribed in language without words
where all true consciousness occurs...

All of us lead separate lives
but they collide and fall apart
even the sincere- the strong- the wise
must soon dream the dream that never dies,
then give their goodbyes and depart
to learn the language of the heart

So if fate feels more coincidence
and nothing seems to make much sense
when each tear that falls, a cruel offence
while lovers turn to bleeding hearts...
Watch Atlas shrugs his shoulders, tense
and the world may grow far too immense
you should know it's just pretense
and as I've told you from the start
Our conversation is an art

Well, dear friend,
the time we spend
pondering how all things end
Can make it easy to forget
How all the world seems better yet
when they begin...

I swear I'll sift through all these lies
'til the Fates propose a compromise
Then I'll say simply, "no thanks, guys."
"Forget the small talk!" I'll advise.
"Your masquerade is drawing flies.
Do you still ignore the heartsick sighs
of questions that draw no replies?"

And I must never close my eyes
for fear I will not recognize
my destiny, come in disguise
And so I write, and I revise
To drown out that sad, slow reprise

Yet, everything I feel or think
I could erase with just one blink
But every line I don't recite
would haunt my dreams throughout the night
So I am glad to be awake
I thank the stars for each heartbreak
And though I tire, and though I shake
It reminds me all reality's fake

Come one day I will surely sleep
the slumber of the six foot deep
when i can no more sow or reap-
And some will laugh, while others weep.
I'll see you in that knowing half
and I will join you while you laugh...

Any dialogue left incomplete
I will spread out at your feet
attended by sentries of the beat
Our first and final masterpiece
Though at last all things must cease
We can finish what we start
if you just look inside your heart
you will find the final part...

Our conversation is our art
We paint with words, and so impart
but such linguistics aren't sincere
unless you meet a willing ear-

Our conversation is our art
where we assemble the end and the start
it's the break in the line of heart
where we must choose to thrive or fall apart...

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