Oh, keep the music coming,

the rhythm and the rhyme;

the syncopated bellissima

between the silence that is mine.

The past that somehow binds the moments,

The present which I forever find,

The passing phen.om.en.o.logical,

Around which we all are entwined.

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Don’t you just hate it when you can’t find your solitude?

When drastic measures are needed to be raised;

When you find yourself trapped in some perfunctory ritual;

Or running for shelter in a purple haze.

My Lord, where are those times of childhood freedom?

My G-od, where are those happy days?

When everyone knew what was important to the other person

And did not care because they knew everyone plays.

Now the play-ers are separated from the pray-ers

And the left is not part of the right;

And the colors are not satisfied being wonderfully radiant

Because they simply are not black or white.

Yes, we only find ourselves alone now

In the heat of the battle

As we raise our backs and 

As we bicker and fight.

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