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Treading Paper
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Thrice
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1
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 -
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is that I'm but another body for the birds,
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carrion, absurd and accidental atoms -
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beating air, carrying on;
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unwitting orphan of an unyielding despair.
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But linger on, just for a moment,
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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 -
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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,
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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,
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we've been treading paper in the space between the words.
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And there implied's the thought -
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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,
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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,
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our hands feel a different pulse.
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If anything means anything,
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there must be something meant for us to be.
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If anything means anything,
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there must be something meant for us to be,
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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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Something fathomless,
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deeper than our pride can dive;
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numinous,
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higher than our hearts can rise;
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transcendent,
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further than our thoughts can reach;
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immanent,
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closer than the air we breathe.
Thrice - Stare At The Sun
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