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All my life, |
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I've been treading paper in the space between the words. |
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And there implied is that |
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I'm but another body for the birds, carrion, absurd and accidental atoms - |
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Beating air, carrying on; unwitting orphan of an unyielding despair. |
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But linger on, just for a moment, until we can ascertain if something's wrong with me - |
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Or the assumptions of these self-indicted brains. |
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Because I contend that all of this is more than just a meaningless charade, |
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That each and every moment is a bottle with a message hid away. |
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If anything means anything, |
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There must be something meant for us to be, a song that we were made to sing. |
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There must be so much more than we can see. |
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But all our lives, we've been treading paper in the space between the words. |
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And there implied's the thought that we are barely more than bodies for the birds, carrion. |
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They say that we're just accidental atoms beating air, carrying on and on, |
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Unwitting orphans of an unyielding despair. |
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But our hearts tell a different story; our hands feel a different pulse. |
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Something fathomless, deeper than our pride can dive; numinous, higher than - |
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Our hearts can rise, transcendent, further than our thoughts can reach; imminent, closer than the air we breathe. |
