If the world turns upon an axis, without an end
Will the life I live be remembered, or perceived
The bleeding pain, from the torment of my life
Do we endure for the pleasure of other people?
Why do we live at all, beyond the primal urge
What is there? Why pursue this life that ends?
Unless within our being is a spiritual hole
One that seeks to be filled by a kind of news
A distant, ever present message sent
From the past from our species' memory
That will fill us, until we are whole
To a fullness everlasting
