The biggest mystery of all,
Is why we think the world is such a mystery,
Though I can't imagine it any other way,
No I can't not for the life of me,
They put forth gods and philosophies,
But the truth is much deeper than these toys,
The song and honeyed throat of the silence,
Shows up this text for it's subtext of noise.
And we don't know why we think it's beautiful,
And we don't even know what it is,
We just know we feel that it's wonderful,
Singer of the soul in all of this.
Made one day to quit this being,
And merge back to the great and all,
To quite the petty politic of dreaming,
Exit the audience to join the choir of the call,
This nameless everything this reckoner of ages,
Brings all it's children to it's world of wordless wonder,
The unknowing ration of eternity's school,
The blank of god and the bones of thunder.
And we don't know why we think it's beautiful,
And we don't even know what it is,
We just know we feel that it's wonderful,
Singer of the soul in all of this.
Folded somewhere deep inside this day,
Are the unassembled parts of a scattered eternity,
Where all the chaotic moments coalesce into deep order,
And what we really are is all we could never be,
Lifetimes spent in the vain pursuits of living,
Only to push us into next world feeling wasted,
Our plans left unused and laying on the map,
And the rain water wine the only vintage tasted.
But when our lives are given back over to this dark mother,
The peace beyond all senses will forgive all that was other.
And we know why we think it's beautiful,
Because we know what it really is,
To come alive just to feel the wonderful,
There couldn't be any more than this.