My arms are empty, but my heart is full
Hope for a cynic, dyed in the wool
My hands aren’t my own; I am but an instrument
Give myself up to the miracle of accident
Won’t offer my consent to gravity’s pull

She’s dangerous and tender
She’s fire and feathers
She’s a puzzle to me
But all the pieces fit together
Closer and wilder
And rising by degrees
Till I can’t feel her anymore
And she burns through me

I wouldn’t call myself a prophet, and I’ll never be a king
As Icarus I’m borne on the wind on delicate wings
Racing toward a flame I know will steal my ambition
Sometimes blind faith defies all intuition
I won’t sacrifice a dream for an ordinary reckoning