Every time I am asked, why the truth has me enslaved, It reminds me of my freedom, that darkness has depraved, So I tell them, “the truth has, and seeks, no control of me”, “The truth is not about control,
From a tiny spout, it slowly begins to take form, Filled drop by drop, from the contributions of a storm, Every single memory, every moment, a part of the deluge, And when you cross the banks, they have no refuge.
Wind glazes the edge, causing ripples on the surface, But soon there is no blemish left on its face, A stone stirs up ripples from its bottom, Soon all that is left, is the stone at the bottom. The first
The deepest black always begins as the lightest gray, Yielding a little every time nights prowls around for prey, With every changing shade, you wonder if gain is really a sacrifice, Like losing a single brick, in an already crumbling
When the boundaries of humanity are marked by endless sand, And yet you know, beyond the water, there’s more land, When there’s no more land, than the place you stand, And yet the water keeps seeping right through your hand.