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Sitting in rooms,
let time pass by.
In solace we heal,
in pictures we hide.
Reserved is my place,
encased are my thoughts.
A painting so old, an image.

Feeling, like you know who I am,
Spoken, words repeating in ears of people we don't even know,
Visual, lead to the being inside me, a stranger inside me, a scream.

Glass I feel my veins are made of,
can't move or hide the fact.
It holds my stare and signals out to call me,
They call me, to listen, to feel, to progress.

You see.
This is not a figment of your imagination;
it is real. It exists in two dimensions.
It is found in pictures.

Does glass ever fade, do our eyes grow blind,
do we ever listen to the feelings inside?
Lost with despair, a lonely empty room,
no thinking at all, just listening to...
...lies of illusionary figures that tell the story - true.

Stolen out from under the lids of my eyes,
Sad and often misleading pictures unfold,
It blinds and lights the way to follow,
Here today gone tomorrow.

Your self-image is a programme that you turn on every day.
Sitting still is moving everything around you.
It is why there's only black and white and no greys in between.
Negatives are what you only see in pictures.

Want to know the reasons why,
Transcend to the sublime.
Ideas have never been grown,
Coloured in by modern screams,
by modern screams.

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