The paper told me something different than it told you.
How can ink speak so clearly and still we get it all wrong?
These things I ask but I feel so far gone, so far gone..

Darling you said it's gone and I did too,
but what does that mean for me and for you?
Could we cage it?
Could we mark it in stain?
And when it's all gone can we remain, can we remain?

The radio wailing has turned it's voice too loud,
and it's speaking is not always true, I've found.
In little voices and silent terms, the key of subjectivity yearns
and it can't remain when Truth is so wrong, when your Truth is so wrong.

What we have been told and what we have taken
seems to have constantly been mistaken into something else
that eludes logical comprehension.
We strive to provide the lies that we like and turn all else to
dice that roll on the table sides only to remain a piece of the game,
the same old wrong game..

One day let us pray that what we all say and what we all hear
is exactly what was intended, no context to fear.
And the people that speak, one day will we meet, and a blossoming might surface.
And that will be the day that the paper told me what it did you;
The day that I might understand.

You are the reason that I survive, Truth.