If we trust this body alone,
we are just moving air around,
a taut consortium of bones
conspiring to return unto the ground.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.
Put your fingers in the wounds
if you need a semblant sensory souvenir.
Far from formed in dust or womb,
we are conceived in endless thought, divinely near.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.
When my Soul is weary of my life,
I’m only seeing with these eyes.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.
we are just moving air around,
a taut consortium of bones
conspiring to return unto the ground.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.
Put your fingers in the wounds
if you need a semblant sensory souvenir.
Far from formed in dust or womb,
we are conceived in endless thought, divinely near.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.
When my Soul is weary of my life,
I’m only seeing with these eyes.
If you get the inside right, the outside falls in place.
We are not finite lamplight dwindling in the grey.
The day is at hand, the night spent.
We are more than bones.