I'm sitting in your tiny dark kitchen
You say "Now I'm here and all is well
No need to cry, no reason to dwell."
I say "Stop kidding, sweetie, just look out the door
there's nothing there but your balcony
You may get me out of depression
But you'll never get depression out of me."

What is the sound of love
But sweet nothings
I whisper to myself

The sound of heartbreak
But your silence
When I say them.

When is the time right
To float on cloud nine

When it is time
To fall flat-faced on the ground.

It stings
To have a wrong fixed

To be set free
A pillow wet with tears.

What is heartbreak
But sweet everythings
I whisper in your ear

The sound of love
But my words pounding
Through your heart.

We three Kings of Orient aren't,
Three queens, we travel from afar,
We arrived on time,
fed sheep and swine,
Delivered the afterbirth,
Cooked food, and then made Peace on Earth, Oh....
(Sing chorus),
Star of wonder, star of light,
Star of royal beauty bright,

We didn't get lost going home,
We didn't leave Mary all alone,
We swept the stable,
Gave her soup in a ladle,
After the afterbirth,
We then made Peace on Earth, Oh....
We three Kings of Orient aren't,
Really three Queens, we came from afar,
We arrived on time,
Fed sheep and swine,
Delivered the baby at the birth,
Then we made Peace on Earth...Oh...
(Sing chorus).....

A soldier, a poet, and a genius. These three carved the paths that their children's ideas must be shaped by. A soldier, through war and horror, through pain a suffering through struggle and ****** his path was one of humor, and this path showed that no matter what ailment it was laughter could heal it. A poet, running miles and miles more than the great messenger who ran the original marathon could ever run so much distance that he is able to see life through a different perspective, his path is one of love and adventure,  always surprising. A genius, the last of the three greats now lies broken, a mind so brilliant it knows how to accept his inevitable demise, his path is one of honesty, chasing the wind, and acceptance, he leaves behind all of his great life's work for his child. And his child's ideas. For he knows, though it is the end of his genius, it's only the spark of his child's.

It's so sad
Being a three wing two
If they'd give you the moon
I'd give you the entire galaxy

It's so sad
Being a three wing two
Because deep down I know
Only the moon would make you happy

It's so sad
Being a three wing two
Having no idea what to do
With the galaxy I just got you

I am dying within this body, and
it is only made worse by my terrible
indecision. I had never felt love
until that warm month of March, and now I
find myself with love for three.

First. You, my love, my starving, lonely love.
I love you, I miss you, I need you, yet
I cannot give myself to you because
you love me too. You love me more than I
thought was possible and, for fear of breaking
your sorry heart and cracking your icy
eyes into rivers, I cannot tell you.

Second. You, my love, my resonant, blazing
love. I love you, I hear you, I see you,
yet all you see is her, so I am not
allowed to. Your song ignites when she is there
and nobody exists or matters other
than her. Your graceful dancing is enough
to make me keep my silence, so  I cannot tell you.

Third. You, my love, my fleeting, dying love.
I love you, I know you, I want you. I
am counting down the days to tell you. Every
second, every moment, every hour of
every day is spent waiting until I
can tell you. You are everything to me,
setting me on fire and embellishing
me with your warmth. But now I remember.
I have a love for three, those three sections
of my own world which I know so strongly.
Therefore, I cannot give myself completely
to one walk of life, and I cannot tell you.

Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter.
                                      --Kafka*


This is a day
like the many days I've spent

empty handed
among the shadows at dusk

that cast no reflections
in the reflecting pools

and hold no illusions
as to what really is illusive.

But on this day my illusions
are changing

imagining that for once my world is based
upon three things;

The rule of law

The five books of your hand

And you, the prophetess that wrote them.

And as required
I will build a hedge for you.

And if this hedge
should ever over grow,
I will then trim it
like a true guardian of the law

Allowing none other entry
and I alone will hold fast

to the five books of your hand
and the only other existing copy.

Do you recognise the ****-wit the
one that takes it on the glass jaw.

The muppet on the string that clings
to the façade of ill positioned words.

Weep for the words that are constructed
like a three year old in nursery time.

Can you read your own reiterate its  
confused like there many thoughts.

Play with there feelings, don't succumb
to the forlorn words they spread idiotically.

There is a ****-Wit in all of us, we take it sometimes,
but others are just ******* more or less.