Questions of...

Questions of Treading, Patience, and Questions Themselves



If the blind cannot see and the deaf cannot hear,
If secrets are told, what is there to fear?
All those who speak are the ones that are heard
But how can it be that there is not a word?
A silence so stunning you’d never perceive
That the thoughts that come out are too hard to believe
Feelings so complex it becomes hard to breathe
Feelings so tense that you wish they would leave

Like a bird on the edge that is desperate to fly
For words such as these some are willing to die
For words some can utter and others cannot
Yet this logic, it seems, is yet to be taught
Like souls that are desperate and try to take wing
Some souls are so quiet they’re unable to sing
Unable to feel, they’re missing one thing
Unable to speak, their voices don’t ring

An organ so fragile it often does break
It’s some people’s game to see what it’ll take
Some people rip it and tear it apart
But sometimes the organ can find a new start
It picks up its pieces up off the ground
And finds enough strength to go and turn around
There may be some things that it just hasn’t found
And with those things surely some joy will bei bound

Like a box with no hinges, key or a lid
Inside there’s a golden treasure that’s hid
Like the way that the wings of a hummingbird beat
There’s got to be something you have yet to meet
There has to be out there a place and a time
And time is the key, but you have to remind
That there’s things that can bite and you cannot rewind
And hopefully those that don’t bite don’t mind

Seven is good but eight is better
Like sand and snow, snow is wetter
But like sand is hard, forget not to be bold
For snow may be wet, but it also is cold
Seven is nice, but eight wears a mask
Revealing itself only when someone dare ask
But like eight always does, it can finish the test
And sometimes its first, but often it’s last