All my life, I´ve been treading paper in the space between the words.
And there implied is that I´m but another body for the birds,
carrion, absurd and accidental atoms - beating air,
carrying on; unwitting orphan of an unyielding despair.

But linger on, just for a moment, until we can ascertain if something´s wrong with me -
Or the assumptions of these self-indicted brains.
Because I contend that all of this is more than just a meaningless charade,
That each and every moment is a bottle with a message hid away.

If anything means anything,
There must be something meant for us to be,
a song that we were made to sing.
There must be so much more than we can see.

But all our lives, we´ve been treading paper in the space between the words.
And there implied´s the thought that we are barely more than bodies for the birds, carrion.
They say that we´re just accidental atoms beating air, carrying on and on,
Unwitting orphans of an unyielding despair.

But our hearts tell a different story;
our hands feel a different pulse.

Something fathomless, deeper than our pride can dive;
numinous, higher than - our hearts can rise,
transcendent, further than our thoughts can reach;
immanent, closer than the air we breathe.