As if we are fish―trying to breathe in a sea of fire,
While sinking in the sand of a sunless seafloor,
Where pixie dust is salt―and flying’s required.
Here we pray, to saints in eggs and elephants in the sky,
Like wise men drowning in a liquor’s shore,
As if we are fish―trying to breathe in a sea of fire.
We are day-old infants, with blisters in the eyes―
Born on the gravity’s core,
Where pixie dust is salt―and flying’s required.
What are we breathing for―if the end is always nigh?
We seem to be worms on a salted floor,
As if we are fish―trying to breathe in a sea of fire.
We are wingless moths, thirsty for the candle’s eye;
We simply crawl towards a giant door,
Where pixie dust is salt―and flying’s required.
We are flightless flies, aiming for heaven and higher,
Noisy toads, in a pit where vipers snore
As if we are fish―trying to breathe in a sea of fire,
Where pixie dust is salt―and flying’s required.
