In my room, the stars are but dreams;
Black flowers dance along the walls.
Black limbs form upon the floor,
As the moon seems create life.
Gods eye,
Looking down upon a dead world.
The stars are, to me, dreams;
Propelled upon my ceiling.
As the air is filled with static electricity,
I cannot help but wonder at my trick.
To create light from nothingness,
Though completely unseen.
If Gods eye hovers above,
What trick limits us so?
Are the stars any less real,
Than the ceiling they rest upon?
The memory so strong, that every face is recalled in dreams.
But in all of this creation and wonder,
I find myself more often being gone.