The moon is in front of the clouds
But Norah knows that cannot be,
She's been taken the same place as he
In the guise of mercurial immortality.
And if we believe a moon in front of the clouds
The better for her to noodle aimlessly
And make believe she's still a child
Who still can make believe,
Or that she ever was a child
Despite the eyes in the dark
That depend on her to be
In her puppet play of tunings on the strings.
Her voice can be poignant, without meaning
And she needs to have no meaning
Though it hangs from every note
Masquerading as mere grief:
The life she'll never live,
The death she'll never have,
Jealous how Jesus with the voice of God
Was taken in quite different circumstances,
To serve to her as a warning
And to make him look less fortunate
To those who were tuned to worship his star
When it wore a cloak of black.
The moon is not the moon.
A black sun cannot be.
Snake eyes gaze on the few
And let the others free
Who keep their innocence despite
Her heartbreaking pleas that these words,
These meanings, are more than they appear to be,
As the keys won't release her hands, won't let it end.
