How is it,
That the game is played
Without it's limit
I'd rather play dead
He seems to know the rules
As if there are any
They know the secret to serenity
Them the fools
They both yearn
He earns
She learns
Up goes hope
Down goes the ground
"How cruel" says the head
It knows, how hard the fall must be
But like in war and poetry
Tout les coups sont permits.

Waiting in love is
a game, maybe hide and seek
ah, perhaps it’s both.

When I look at a chess game,
I see the limits of Infinity.

Cold, cold ice,
And a

Roll of dice,
Do you

Hear the cries
Of the
Scamp’ring mice

Running
For their lives,

Biting
Down two lies,

And a
Broken

Set of
Eyes.

Sometimes my muse only sees the dark, he fills my pen with pain
Makes me write sad little lines, and makes tears fall like rain
He’s only trying to spill my heart, so I get poetic relief
He makes me think these things, but it doesn’t change my belief
I believe that I know myself, there’s no one else to blame
I keep writing with my muse, we play a poetic game