Work your relative truths
During the sound of day,
Reality construed through tools
Of your calculating conscious minds:
Optimal for survival and longevity.

But do remember too:
As when the silence of night dawns in, and
As the sound of thought scurries away
While you're cradled in the arms of slumber,
None of those truths will matter
Which governed your existence during the day.
It best be thought as Maya(illusion).

A forlorn figure cut by the window:
Yearning for coalescence.

Communion with a butterfly thwarted
by that shut transparent window.

So long as hands can write,
I'll persevere in composing songs for you,
So that you may retain moisture
In this probable dry desert—
My dear self (the bard).

Answers lie in effort
Questions—in result.

Trust is necessary in guiding
The ink to give meaningful forms
To words written in darkness.

Sleep lasts a while longer during Death
Awakening is an alternating inevitability

Weaving itself, the dream-spider:
I see an aged man
(Wearing his evening time-machined body,)
Walking,
Traipsing upon the jogging track
At a pace which nature observes.

His frame battered,
Pummeled by age's indignation—
Of youth's battle lost.
His mowed grass-like hair showcasing
a white hue patented by age's theme of perseverance.

Beholden to years which he beheld.

His suspenders holding matter elegantly
Despite the invisible mass adhered to his layers
Excreted by years matured;
Increasing his gravity
Making him denser, heavier;
Decreeing excess energy.

Yet he obliges with his compromised gait
in reiterating verbs of motion.
Taking twice as much time to complete a revolution,
Taking twice as much
As his yesteryears.

In a witness's capacity, I relay:
Everything is a disciple of change,
But your energy...
Your energy remains as the constant
to the proportionality of age and will.