Lines in the Sand

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.