...however as he slothfully reclined
Banking himself on the cold steel bench
Dilemma gripped nastily on his shoulders;
The clouds pace above and as if alive
Winked at him- pulling memories from behind
"Oh yes, we are but a speck of a seed
A granule, puny and almost trivial
By how- minute as we- pull off an impact
Than a lone tree in a dry sunny land
And lighted cottage amidst dark forest indeed?"
Resounding they truly are, his mentor's words
Past and spoken, long uttered in the wind.
Yet it reverberates from the turquoise skyscrapers
To the bench he sat beside his proud Ford.
"For the proper or for the practical thing?"
An innocent query shrieking upon the silence.
a galleon of betterment versus virtue;
The bright clouds blots his space on the wide greenery.
"Affirmative." A salmon is going upstream.