Morning blooms,
purple skies descend
The candles burning,
burning at both ends

I feel I am the shepherd

Falling snow
or is it frozen ash
Steadily squalls
like the dripping wax

Looking for his sheep

An ill, faded tundra
greets my sight
My world of color
now hopelessly white

I may as well be blind

An ignorant quest
I can't take any longer
A conscious famine
driven by the hunger

A fuel for the flame
Just to get me through this
Call me a glutton
But I starve for a purpose

Hard to have direction
In this dry sea of waste
When there's no rose
To guide me on my way

Instead I stare out for a beacon
An icon of hope to appear in the distance

The omen, to see
The omen, to believe
The omen, a sign that my life has meaning
I await and gaze
And still there's no prophecy
Blind, finally I behold...

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