A whisper in the static, a hum before the dawn
A speck of stardust dreaming, before the form was drawn.
A speck of stardust dreaming, before the form was drawn.
No map to guide the leaving, no reason for the stay,
just a pulse of pure potential that knew it couldn't stay.
It packed a bag of silence, and borrowed bone and breath,
and tumbled into time and skin, to flirt with life and death.
The soul’s a reckless sailor on a sea of "what if" and "when",
It burns its holy textbooks just to feel the warmth again.
It isn't here to win the prize or reach a final shore,
It's just to taste the salt and tears, and ask for something more.
It’s the ache inside the music, the space between the notes,
The hilarious, terrifying journey of remembering our own throats.
It learns the language of a laugh, the grammar of a scar.
It learns the language of a laugh, the grammar of a scar.
It trades its cosmic knowing for a rusty, guiding star.
It gets lost in alleys of desire, in temples made of stone,
forgets its own divinity, and feels so much alone.
It wears a hundred faces, loves a dozen, leaves a few,
Collecting cracks and fractures, like morning collects the dew.
And in the quiet wreckage, when the story starts to fray,
It finds the truth it was looking for was not the "why," but "way."
The way the light still finds a crack, the way the wound can heal,
The way the darkest nights are where the brightest stars reveal...
That the journey wasn't outward, it was a spiral to the core,
And "home" was never a place to find, but a silence to restore.
So let the wind blow through you, let the story come and go.
So let the wind blow through you, let the story come and go.
You're the sky, and not the clouds; you're the ember, not the glow.
Just a breath, then back to starlight.
Just a song, and then... the quiet.
Return.
To yourself.
To the real.
