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One day you're certain |
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of how things will be. |
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Then you're bewildered |
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and robbed of your glee. |
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And this is what happens next: |
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the curtains are drawn; |
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the stage of your life revealed, |
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but the script is now gone. |
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Ohh oohh... |
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The question's in your eyes, |
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"What's the meaning of it all?" |
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To which your heart replies, |
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"This is much less like a play |
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and more like a Grand Ball." |
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Yeah! |
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The stage is now filled with song |
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all the cast of your play are now dancing. |
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You're itching to dance along; |
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now you can't stop your feet from the tapping. |
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Soon enough you'll start to think, |
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"Perhaps I'll write again." |
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With your reasons indistinct, |
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"A script may help this dance." |
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You so easily forget, |
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exactly how this ends. |
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Inspired, rewired, |
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you calculate the steps. |
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Each movement to the moment, |
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an elaborate conquest. |
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You'll find such comfort in the orchestration. |
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You must determine how the plot unfolds. |
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Making rigid demands of your cast. |
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They seem so unconcerned with the things you ask. |
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And still they keep dancing on |
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just as though you don't have a say. |
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And the choice of routine or song |
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isn't better that way. |
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This is what happens when |
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you realize your not in control. |
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Some days you'll bear the load |
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and others you won't. |
