In my imperfect body I'll reach out, in my imperfect mind I'll dream, in an imperfect

world I'll nurture my spirit.

Infinity can rest in a second of ecstasy that flows and ebbs through faces.

Will my soul be as perfect as speculated?

It's the 13th hour and my eyes grow heavy when I touch the clouds that plague the skies.

No sheep will dance for my pleasure, no wings appear for me to fly, no flowers will bloom

for my bouquet, and nothing will wither in my grasp.

Time will embrace my reckless phase and contemplate me till my last breath.

It is warm where we are, from a distance, out by the winter cold of glances.

Will you dance, will you dance with my shortcomings?

Will you dance at all to my steps?

There's a bellow from a sleepy herd beckons, here a mindless being transcends.

From a culturalist existence to something raised with legacy and hopefulness extends.

It's the 13th hour and my eyes grow heavy when I touch the clouds that plague the skies.

No sheep will dance for my pleasure, no wings appear for me to fly, no flowers will bloom

for my bouquet, and nothing will wither in my grasp.

Time will embrace my reckless phase and contemplate me till my last breath.

What do we give?

What do we search for?

And we know what makes the stars, what makes the earth turn.

We'll never, ever know.

No sheep will dance for my pleasure, no wings appear for me to fly, no flowers will bloom

for my bouquet, and nothing will wither in my grasp.

Time will embrace my reckless phase and contemplate me till my last breath.

And contemplate me till my last breath.