|
The streamline will carry on |
|
far beyond our lives. |
|
The temple crumbles into dust. |
|
Designed by action, |
|
spinning slender threads |
|
that weave between the walls, |
|
now is the vestige |
|
of a future far to come. |
|
Running in the treads |
|
of exercised experience with |
|
the answers placed before us |
|
by our own mistakes. |
|
Mice in the lab |
|
with minimal reaction |
|
to greater woes and the |
|
throes of our brethren before us. |
|
The end seems ever imminent, |
|
like a long announced instant |
|
of a flash that wraps us up in dust |
|
and descends as fast as it arose. |
|
Alas, this is just wanton hope. |
|
Bans to stay the hands of men |
|
from grasping high at desperate threads |
|
that taunt them until they realize |
|
they've got only each other to stand on. |
|
Complacent is the age |
|
in a place whose strength |
|
is shaped by the anger of those |
|
desperate for change, |
|
but unable to make it. |
|
Take a place |
|
or remain drowning in the waves |
|
of the greater. |
|
We've limited our freedom and called it contraband. |
|
Do not reach for me in faith, you'll be cut off at the hand. |
