We were born
from the clouds,
and immediately  
you turned me
upside-down,
and started singing
in the shower.

Throw me a line,
if you find the time,
i know i'd really like
to catch up with you.

We are all inclined to wander.
We are all inclined to ponder,

Our origins
or if you must
our source,
but lets try to trust
that we are probably
here for some purpose (or other).

Of course that
may be clear
to some of you;
yet to others
its just a fog,
or an ephemeral haze,
of lust and musty smells.

The lingering pain
that dwells
between these shells,
when we confess our faults.

That we are all just
lonely houses,
built on pools of quick-sand,
with glands and nervous systems
that can no longer bear
to heed the soul's
commands.

Why should it make sense,
these feeble attempts
at understanding?

When its all a stance
we take against the odds,
to wager that our lives
were evenly tossed,
like the throwing of darts,
or the casting of dice.

Left spinning on thin ice,
like shopping carts
left in the gap space.

What will take our place
after we face
the ultimate stakes
tonight?