Our pursuit of being is just a drop from the sky,
falling until we hit Earth and the Sun soaks us dry.
Our pursuit of being is just a breath of choice,
the red ribbons consume any holy voice.
What determines our train of thought?
An abyss of wonder has got me caught...
Why, oh, why are we hit with such questions of life?
And why, oh, why is my name written on the soft skin of time?
Do I dare lift the organs for a better view of my heart?
Do I dare close the book to put an ending to my start?
I’d pay a penny to take back the lies I’ve told,
and I’d give a limb for all of the sins I hold.
A knife to the mirror that holds my fragile being,
petals fall in my garden of bodies, my soul is fleeing.
Our pursuit of being is just our very name carved into stone..
with the dirt swallowing us whole, yes, we’re just a heap of bones.