---

Sometimes for a moment of bliss,

and the passion we're craving,

there's a message we miss.

Sometimes when the

spirits left alone,

we must believe in something

to find if we've grown.

Tragic reflex,

shattered calm.

Static progress,

senses gone.

Numb awareness,

final psalm!

Swept away with the tide

through the holes in my hands.

Crown of thorns at my side,

drawing lines in the sand.

Sometimes,

if you're perfectly still,

you can hear the virgin weeping

for the savior of your will.

Sometimes

your castles in the air,

and the fantasies you're seeking

are the crosses you bear.

Sacred conflict,

blessed prize.

Weeping crosses,

stainless eyes.

Desperate addict,

faith disguised.

Swept away with the tide

through the holes in my hands.

Crown of thorns at my side,

drawing lines in the sand.

We fabricate our demons,

invite them into our homes.

Have supper with the alien

and fight the war alone.

We conjure up our skeletons,

enlist the den of thieves.

Frightened from our closets

then sewn upon our sleeves.

In the stream of consciousness

there is a river crying.

Living comes much easier,

once we admit we're dying.

Sometimes,

in the wreckage of our wake,

There's a bitterness we harbor

and hate for hatred's sake.

Sometimes we

dig an early grave

and crucify our instincts

for the hope we couldn't save.

Sometimes a view

from sinless eyes,

centers our perspective

and pacifies our cries.

Sometimes the anguish we survive

and the mysteries we nurture

are the fabrics of our lives.

Swept away with the tide

through the holes in my hands.

Crown of thorns at my side,

drawing lines in the sand.