I spend my time meandering the halls of other lives
and yield with some discretion to the questions, "how and why"
although my understanding may be limited somehow
I'm not afraid to fall apart in someone else's now
my blood is made of seekers who have tasted life and death
and fervently laid doubt as bare as every single breath
"my hands are still in working," said a voice I came to know
a part of me as much as every petal on a rose
I bloom inside a garden that the sun will never leave
I'm here until this world is not the place I'm meant to be