I have no want to help in technical progression.
With 6 billion and counting. Let someone else do it.
I have no stride to conquer the universe.
This world is our home.
With endless areas to know on your own.
Without their help.
Three lives open this door.
And no matter what.
Only one of those three will truly close it.
And I do not even curtsy the thought
of seeing anyone of you there.
When I get to tomorrow.
A priceless restitution.
For a fingerprint journey of, actually, desolution.
Its not mad, prince.
Or sad, princess.
Fate is a fable.
Your life is not a story.
Billions of invisible hands. Like any farmers field.
Holding on to a bar with weird engravings
Etched into it.
All of the answers are in the palm of your hands.
If only our eyes could read them. Plucked.
Oh if only we hadn't been fixed.
The garden is very much here.
But when the mother passes out.
And you are separated in concerns for your health.
You are secretly given the deserts map.
Of only left turns forever a turn is coming ahead.
There is not nature living with us here.
In the place that we are in.
That is not comfort that you are feeling within.
Its the god of mirage. Leaving us staring blank-less.
Into a corner of black. Not darkness.
Well! My gums play a gymnast.
My teeth reverse the up and down!
Why not eat your own flesh, indulge in yourself.
Just on the very edge of the desert bashes
a soundproof completed tsunami ocean.
Where men have always succumbed.
Too terrified to go on with exploration.
There is more than this
Your soul is a great dance.
Not a history lesson.