Oh sing for what isn’t, the always unknown.
When the pen brings peace to a bleeding warzone,
And each soldier shrugs off a cracked collarbone.
Oh sing for what isn’t,
Though it wasn’t meant to be.
Oh sing for what isn’t, the purest of weeds.
When freedom grows tall from crabapple seeds,
And each man can find his own vine and fig tree.
Oh sing for what isn’t,
Though it wasn’t meant to be.
Oh sing for what isn’t, the fairest of kings.
The nights I don’t worry what the morrow brings,
And my carelessness spreads itself out like wings.
Oh sing for what isn’t,
Though it wasn’t meant to be.
But at dusk when I pray: look up at the stars,
Then down to myself: my soul full of scars.
Can I reach peace through reality’s bars?
Can I sing for what isn’t,
Though it wasn’t meant to be?
Oh, something will sway me from this pit of dismay,
As nothing grows tall without wanting to stay
And maybe I’m foolish, to see it this way but
There’s no shame in what isn’t,
If it wasn’t meant to be.
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