We carry the weight of what can be touched,
The bone, the blood, the skin,
Yet we spend our lives in a quiet reach
For the ghosts that live within.
The brain is a map of silver and grey,
The heart, a rhythmic beat;
Both are hidden behind the ribs
Where the seen and the unseen meet.
"Don't you understand my heart?" we cry,
Pleading with a phantom space,
Demanding a hand to grasp a thought
Or touch a feeling’s face.
We walk as solid, heavy things,
Yet we hunger for the air,
For the soul, the spirit, the inner wind,
The parts that aren't quite there.
Even when we kneel to pray,
We beg for a physical sign,
Searching for a human shape
In a presence more divine.
But the eyes are liars in the end,
And the flesh is just the thin;
The world is won by the quiet force
Of the light that lives within.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 3:05 AM UTC
We carry the weight of what can be touched,
The bone, the blood, the skin,
Yet we spend our lives in a quiet reach
For the ghosts that live within.
The brain is a map of silver and grey,
The heart, a rhythmic beat;
Both are hidden behind the ribs
Where the seen and the unseen meet.
"Don't you understand my heart?" we cry,
Pleading with a phantom space,
Demanding a hand to grasp a thought
Or touch a feeling’s face.
We walk as solid, heavy things,
Yet we hunger for the air,
For the soul, the spirit, the inner wind,
The parts that aren't quite there.
Even when we kneel to pray,
We beg for a physical sign,
Searching for a human shape
In a presence more divine.
But the eyes are liars in the end,
And the flesh is just the thin;
The world is won by the quiet force
Of the light that lives within.
