There’s a story writ by angels
That ne’er included me.
The children’s spoken gospel.
A carving in a tree.
You repeat it when you whisper.
You can feel it when you breathe.
It harkens to the best in us
Even if we don’t believe.
As if the rain precedes the clouds,
As if the light begets the sun,
You know the ending to the song
Even though it is not done.
As if the story were a river
Upon which your soul floats.
We’ve all read the ending
And the river, she still flows.

It’s a tale that begins where the end was wrought
And the tallow of our hearts had yet to boil off.
There was a fire in our eyes, now our tears run dry,
Because the story’s not complete,
Until the hero dies.

There’s an ode behind the daylight
Enraptured by the sea.
We paint ourselves with soot
Of men who dreamt of being free.
With every link set upon
The chain of your deeds,
Another’s length will shorten
As the tide recedes.
You can look back on your path
But your steps are lost.
Waves grasp quick at your feet
And bring a warming frost.
As if the story were the sun,
Reflecting off of the sea.
We feel the pages growing thin
And the sun, she still beams.

It’s a tale that begins where the end was wrought
And the tallow of our hearts had yet to boil off.
There was a pounding to the rhythm that shook us apart
And we moved through our lives with a disregard.
It’s the growing machinations of a hidden foe
And the innocence we lose with every line we show.
There was a fire in our eyes, now our tears run dry,
Because the story’s not complete,
Until the hero dies.

There’s a lore spoken in silence
Upon a raptor’s beak.
A single word that’s ne’er shared,
But through the rose of a cheek.
As if the story were a secret,
That we were born to receive.
Squeeze the covers to your chin.
The secret, she still speaks.

It’s a tale that begins where the end was wrought
And the tallow of our hearts had yet to boil off.
There was a pounding to the rhythm that shook us apart
And we moved through our lives with a disregard.
It’s the growing machinations of a hidden foe
And the innocence we lose with every line we show.
A need to fill desires that we can’t explain,
Yet weathered by the thunder running in our veins.
A stone that beckons us to let soar
And an oil that burns in every open door.
It’s the yearning for a quest that we can’t complete
And the emptied walls that we all shall leave.
There was a fire in our eyes, now our tears run dry,
Because the story’s not complete,
Until the hero dies.