Confessions of a Broken Piece of Glass

Cyclical is our existence, a circular illusion
Coiled infinitely across an inexistent dimension which we cannot wrap our arms around, let alone our tiny minds

Its ever unfolding, like a snake giving birth to itself
Although it also seems to eat its own tail,
We’re like a train always ascending up it’s own spiral staircase
With each new piece of track, being the furthest back piece of rail

From the same place we all rise, like a phoenix from a pile of ash
And as we die, we’re all charred in a flash

We help invent the universe, with the parts of our minds
That all communicate though carbon-based binds
Connecting ourselves to the others we find, and relate to throughout changes of time-
Which are also quite surely all perfectly aligned-in one big absurd illusion of a certain kind

All of us here feel this phenomenal heat,
And we retreat but cannot see the flame...
We’ve just gotten so defensive out of fear of getting beat
That we’ve forgotten that we’re playing a game

And we’ve lost all our aim, and yet don’t find it a shame,
And then we claim that we know God by name?

The best way to describe, the mystic force felt within every vibe
Is to look around at what meets the eye-
The great sea and the sky
The grey eagle up high
And the heavens as they’re born and they die

God built a shattered mirror, to understand Itself with
And each shard gave Him a name
And a face within a myth

But maybe, just maybe, its not She but we,
Who are simply the one’s that do not truly exist