Beneath the whirling tumult of sea
is the resting place of forgotten dreams.
But not everything below is dead,
they just cannot be touched by the sun
and what was once so vivid and true
is now a heartbeat beneath the sand.
Through the hourglass slips the sand
creating a beach for the pale green sea
making what is real no longer true
and in our waking hours, those dreams
of days when we could touch the sun
fall like gulls upon the shore, dead.
Where do we go when the past is dead?
Do we bury our heads under the sand
or turn our eyes up towards the sun?
Only in that white, bright light do we see
the weak heartbeat of lost dreams
and a north star to what is true.
Following the path that�s straight and true,
the waysides littered with our dead,
we behold the cost of our fever dreams
in shallow graves beneath hot sand.
All the cleansing of salted sea
cannot reverse the setting sun.
We plod along, daughter and son,
in search of dreams and love that�s true.
Each changing like tides on the sea
That only stop if we are dead.
Still we write our names in sand
And skip flat stones like they�re our dreams.
What is the meaning of these dreams,
That will one day implode like our sun,
If not an attempt to stay Time�s own sands
Or a question of what�s still true
That we sing to all our dead
Floating on burning ships to sea.
What we know to be true, is lost at sea
where dreams are as movable as sand.
We are not dead, yet we block the sun.
