Dreams come and go,
Morning songs sound,
Free in the airwave,
A frequency yet to be heard,
Circling in our minds.
This strange vibration,
Waiting to be heard,
To be recognized
As a familiar sound,
While nobody is listening.
We close our eyes,
Just so we don’t see,
What confronts us for who we are,
And just pretend who we are not,
In our own visual circle of comfort
We don’t seem to understand,
That the language we create,
Only concerns what we believe,
Based on what we know,
Without knowing the unknown.
Trying to find who we truly are,
We have to discover ourselves,
In the far depts of the motionless mind,
Surrounded by the blinded silence
Which creates who we are not.