The reality of the dream lies in its sign
The image in the mirror and the I align
Night for day and day for black and white
Is a feeling so much realer than the real?
Is the truth that we seek locked behind a seal?
Do we hold the key in our two hands?
Like a beacon in the sky
Shines abright but it's a lie
There's nothing in that light
It's emptied itself out
Our trust in the truth is dead we killed it ourselves
It didn't make a sound, didn't have a story to tell
His/story is proven wrong again
And in the end is the end and end in itself?
Are all our thoughts stored neatly on a shelf?
Or are they scattered in an arbitrary way?
Like a beacon in the sky
Shines abright but it's a lie
There's nothing in that light
It's emptied itself out
And it's so easy
Is it easy?