All my life, I've been treading paper in the space between the words.
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And there implied is that I'm but another body for the birds,
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Carrion, absurd and accidental atoms - beating air,
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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
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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. If anything
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Means anything,
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There must be something meant for us to be, a song that we were made to
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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
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Words.
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And there implied's the thought that we are barely more than bodies for the
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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. But our hearts tell a different
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Story;
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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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-
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Our hearts can rise, transcendent, further than our thoughts can reach;
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Immanent, closer than the air we breathe.
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|
-----------------
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Treading Paper
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| Thrice |
