Life is stagnant as my regression, as facts encompass thee. A lack of fantasy and my troubled realism, so can we not switch and save each other, or let alone save ourselves?
Encouraging our dreams for the day-to-day and we fancy, a troubled meter rises and thus the weather grays, ending in our frown and thence we scream from some bottom whence we came.
An ether is left of our whims, echoing past dreams since faded. Where are we left but raftless in its torrent, letting go of our fears as we plunge and accept, sucking in the rapids as our breath. Growing gills by our will and surviving by a stretch of luck, that someone found us blue. Livid whence we wake again, lifeless though blooded, having reached and gone nowhere.
Confounded, our accents slur as our wills, always in its prime no matter of our aged wisdom. This frigid goal encompasses us, luring our endangered freedom toward an encasing desperation.
We ask the point again, over our impulsive need to hold an answer immediately-as it did not come-so wait while we ponder as do our masters who are yet invisible to us. Who are our Gods whom we place our questions? How are we incorporeal to them, the seers of all, those of us who are written to be beneath their all seeing eye? Are we truly required to search for them, when they so thoroughly carry the advantage?
With stolen breath I beseech this abstract spirit, this blind sire, a force I place higher than us to whom we can beg. But where to begin…I ask of thee what I cannot answer, or even address ye as nameless.
Hear me, this hypocrite. But you are mine, so accept me as I am, this imperfect being, and give me a name I can give others. Offer me a purpose I might speak, save me hope so that I might carry on.
