I don't feel like reading
I don't feel like writing
I don't feel like living
But don't feel like dying

If hope fills our pockets
Then mines full of holes
Since I don't feel much in there
Only the lint common in clothes

I'm told there's a journey
With only one road
To the center of something
Some mention as soul

And in this center we'd find
What we've longed for all along
Something brighter than diamonds
And shinier than gold

A little piece of something older
Than the oldest of old
It's so incredibly tiny
Yet bigger than us all.

This core, we share between us
Like we're an orange's lobes
Yet there is plenty to go around
And for that, I'm thankful.

And then, having arrived
We rest...