I won’t save the stories you tell about yourself.
I’ll scatter them like ash in the air.
When nothing answers back,
that is where you begin.

Breathe, breathe, breathe
deeper, stronger, wider still.
In, out, in, out
let it break, let it fill.
Not a high but a harvest,
you are breath, and you are will.

I don’t weigh your sins,
I weigh your silence.
I don’t keep your past,
I keep the pulse beneath it.
Strip down, and when you shake,
I will not call it weakness.

Breathe, breathe, breathe
deeper, stronger, wider still.
In, out, in, out
let it break, let it fill.
Not a high but a harvest,
you are breath, and you are will.

Breathe in, no name.
Breathe out, no mask.
Again, again, again
until nothing is left but the breath.
Not a high but a harvest,
the body remembers best.

Breathe, breathe, breathe
deeper, stronger, wider still.
In, out, in, out
let it break, let it fill.
Not a high but a harvest,
you are breath, and you are will.

not a high

I sat in a room tonight while a woman said
your body is a temple made by God Himself.
And something in me softened
some old instinct I don’t admit I have.
She spoke of cells repairing,
bones remembering, scars dissolving like snow.
And even though I don’t believe her scripture,
I still believed the glow.

’Cause I’ve read the stories, too
the hunters praying for rain,
the farmers begging sun,
the kings who carved commands into stone
and called it sacred.
Every era draws its own God
in whatever shape keeps the world from shaking apart.
And I feel the pull of that comfort
even as it breaks my heart.

But if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s nothing like the wars.

They say the universe is perfect
that one degree off and we wouldn’t be here.
And I admit it
that thought makes me tremble,
makes me small in a way I almost like.
But then I look at history bleeding out
under banners sewn with scripture,
and I wonder if God is a mirror
or just the prettiest story we can write.

But if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s nothing like the wars.

I don’t know the truth.
But I know the ache.
The wanting to belong to something
that won’t bend or break.
But every holy book I’ve held
still smells like mortal hands.
Ink of kingdoms, grief of ages,
rules written by frightened men.

So if Your name falls out of human mouths,
is it still holy, or just ours?
If fear can dress itself as faith,
then what are we praying for?
I want to trust in something vast,
but not the violence we’ve adored.
If there’s a God behind the curtain
I hope He’s gentler than our wars.

New tracks tagged #indieritual