Our lives, so filled with stone
built by honor ridden gentle souls
but still on sand
and who'll atone?
ever sinking, always reeking of a history with no mystery.
From where we've come, we're bound to grow
yet we've come home with no gifts for a king with no throne.
And who'll atone?
For a smile like reaching,
a grip like teaching
the sad way the wind learned its name;
blowing down the tree that said it.
and who'll atone?
For the end of the echo that gives sound sight.
when you remember you are forgetting, drink deep of the stillness
and wash your mist away.
and you'll atone.
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