Deception, purple paper hiding red flesh
Our fathers selling our souls to damnation
Tearing at our minds with greedy claws
Is this right to expect from kin?

Seers, red dust and speckled wounds
Sears, on supple flesh, oil spilling from sheets
Of metal, burning to the desolate sky
Carrying the lost dreams of infinity cloud-bound

A shield, bound around me, a barrier to hide
Dissolves to snakes, a silent hiss
Threats from bombs I cannot hear;
Bullets I cannot feel
yet

The light eeks as though pierced through a bubble
Cloud's a light bulb; iridescence a stranger
Distant pounds muffled, yet sounding slowly
Papers rustling, forest of created simplicity
tickling my ears and laying me down
retiring into old ideas and youthful reprise
such simplicity, such grace, such comfort
in a room I've never frequented
as if exploration were the devil's ruse

How ironic that here science and study have penetrated
old tradition and oft forlorn inscriptions
yet those same explorers leave the world as strangers

How surreal: Is it a blessing or a curse?
Lessons should not solely be learnt in verse