The reality of the dream lies in its sign
The image in the mirror and the I align
Night for day and day for black and white

Is a feeling so much realer than the real?
Is the truth that we seek locked behind a seal?
Do we hold the key in our two hands?

Like a beacon in the sky
Shines abright but it's a lie
There's nothing in that light
It's emptied itself out

Our trust in the truth is dead we killed it ourselves
It didn't make a sound, didn't have a story to tell
His/story is proven wrong again

And in the end is the end and end in itself?
Are all our thoughts stored neatly on a shelf?
Or are they scattered in an arbitrary way?

Like a beacon in the sky
Shines abright but it's a lie
There's nothing in that light
It's emptied itself out

And it's so easy
Is it easy?

See also:
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