I am the ride

I awoke and someone spoke–they asked me in a whisper
If all my dreams and visions had been answered
I don’t know what to say–I never even pray
I just feel the pulse of universal dancers
They’ll waltz me till I die and never tell me why–
I’ve never stopped to ask them where we’re going
But the holy, the profane, they’re all helplessly insane
Wishful, hopeful, never really knowing

They asked if I believe, and do the angels really breathe?
Or is it all a comforting invention?
It’s just like gravity I said–it’s not a product of my head
It doesn’t speak but nonetheless commands attention
I don’t care what it means, or who decorates the scenes
The problem is more with my sense of pride
It keeps me thinking me, instead of what it means to be
But I’m not a passenger, I am the ride
I’m not a passenger, I am the ride

I Am The Ride, Chris Smither

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