stick to it

He sang them, in all kinds of ways, sometimes he would deny them, sometimes he would bring them up out of the blue, sometimes he would piss you off, showing no care.
He might have seemed pathetic and pitiful at some point but as he went through he came through, slowly but surely, until not only he but also the rest of the world believed it.
Wounds healed over time or so it seems. The frames that contained them still look pretty impressive but sometimes he can't help but destroy them with one big stroke, smashing them, shattering them, enraged that they are the invisible anchor to memories that are gone.
But so we all keep going. In my cage behind glass windows I watch the grey street morph into a liquid stream of lead, telling stories of yet another life in slow motion.
People still cheer him on, scrambling for the shattered pieces of old picture frames.
And I am so far away from anything, you are safe behind seven veils and songs become songs, valid in themselves, and whatever emotions flooded through me just kept on flowing and left me stranded at some moon filled bay without compass or sense.
Sometimes I think that maybe we just loved him, that our love reflected off this big full moon and when it declined we left, sucked into the black that hid all that was ours. This thunderstorm swirled me in outrageous spirals and spit me out at some sidewalk in Berlin where everything seems so calm and people hurry but they can't hurt me.
And my love is not fazed nor faded, it lingers in the midst of unspoken words and lies, in melodies too sweet to bare and naked dreams that fill your night mares.
I do not understand anything that is happening to me nor to you, I just feel how the oceans and mountains and plains and timezones separate the anguish from pain.