Woe to the world and its havoc,
with all the indecisiveness of a peacock.
Shame to that which taints perfection,
all that which filters affection.
The mind continuously fails its purpose,
one which it is ‘forced’ to oppose.
To rationally reason infallibly
and not to intervene uncritically.
Born to the light of darkness is a soul
full of life, with no expectations of this foul.
“Couldn’t I have waited a little bit longer?
In the protection of the womb, I’d have been stronger.”
To a thousand grains like sand,
broken pieces of this soul can’t be mended.
Broken pieces of this soul can’t be fixed
until the possessor has it all mixed.