Die

Would you like it when a thousand knives
Invade your dull, colourless, tasteless lives?
What would you know of pleasures
Hidden in passion or longing?
You who live in search of meaning
Without knowing what you seek
You make a pantomime
Out of a tragedy
And end up living out
A role in the eternal comedy.
Fools die.

Why do we live?

We are the air
We are the sound
Inside our minds
We live a thousand lives
And die a million times
Chasing our dreams
We forget it is the dream
And not the chase
That we are seeking

Inside our minds
We seek the light
Of a smile
From ourselves
Yet we run away
And die often
Before we face
What we fear the most
In ourselves
Is ourself
Self
But we are the sound
And the air
Self