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Is there room to care for the penultimate?
Can't decide if the space can satisfy two collard greens.  
One oblivious cabbage... one who has desperately tried to expand the space, to save the others, who understands bobbing in the excluded oceans surrounding the islands of Oceania. 
3, 68, 229, 345, 600, 892... not... quite...there, a goal, a dying wish, origami. 
No heart, soiled by the fitted bubble of the inconsequential, Cetaphil.   
Can't see past the blemishes, what about the cabbage losing leaves, poisoned, vomiting, now there are no leaves, vulnerability. 

Don't worry, the spaces are occupied by vulnerability. 
No room for judgement, or thoughts of the penultimate. 
Even on the bottom, there is always something lower, trying to climb up on bubbles of Cetaphil. 
A struggle, its true, but we can develop ours, at least we started with one, unlike collard greens. 
The intricate folds, and beautiful paper,  not always recognizable, not always attainable, origami.  
Not everyone sees it but its there, hidden, but known like the islands of Oceania. 

Not everything is complete. Not everything is as dependable as the vastness of Oceania,
There are fissures and cracks in more than just sidewalks, the weathering of these cracks lie in years, peoples vulnerability.
Red hot, blue... no black as the depths, bitter jealousy, the man behind the handcrafted heart mask, origami.
Second to last, started first, how is that? Penultimate. 
Shes kind.  A cabbage with something else to give, the other had so many more leaves of memory, but the man sought a different collard. 
We long for the beginning, when things were beautiful, filled with patience because of the newness. Can't love persist through the weathered face, seemingly in need of Cetaphil?

Positive they say, it can be good for you, they claim, cleansing like Cetaphil. 
No, not really, more like an unexpected attack from the depths of Oceania.  
Avoidable they counter, get out of the self inflicted ocean, stop bobbing, break the cycle of the idle collards.
Impossible, can't escape, human vulnerability...
You'll regret it, they say, you'll be the penultimate.
That's okay. Life's hard, we've already fallen apart, like wet paper, origami.  

Hold on, with time comes patience for the fragile paper projects that seem to fill our portfolio... weathered origami. 
The collection of dreams grow impatient, longing to be polished and beautiful, the mind failing in its obligation as Cetaphil. 
Longing to shatter the sky, to pass through its broken remains and soar with whatever lies outside its vast, restrictive blueness.  Flying... to high above to be categorized as the penultimate,
Into the space opened by the shattered sky, the ocean of the earth we longed to escape, now pales in insignificance to the depths of life beyond the sky, beyond the misnomer of Oceania.
But how long will the waves continue to capsize? How long will the mind stand to be weathered by vulnerability?
Its up to the owner of the mind, we possess a heart and the drive, unlike collards. 

Outside the bubble there are other collard greens,
Outside there is rain and sun, good and bad, failures and success like the breathtakingly intricate crane or the misshapen simple boats of life... origami, 
Outside the bubble there are lives to be mended, if sights will be set past self vulnerability,
Outside there are others to be noticed, others who understand the irritating need and constant use of Cetaphil,
Outside our bubble, there is life worth living, vast possibilities and wide expanses of unexplored dreams, be brave, sail the seas of Oceania.
But first, acknowledge the bubbles which bind us, only then will there be room to care for the penultimate.
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