Born to die, immortal we are not,
dwelling on the past, we descend looking back.
No memories of the womb, a black existence.
The cyclic pattern, a psychotropic dream,
monolithic, no hidden seams.
Climb into the abyss,
another reverie.
Morphic resonance has made the arrival,
another chance bequeathed.
A silent gift of opportunity,
an experience we don’t recall.
Don’t fret, just live it all.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
Born to die, immortal we are not,
dwelling on the past, we descend looking back.
No memories of the womb, a black existence.
The cyclic pattern, a psychotropic dream,
monolithic, no hidden seams.
Climb into the abyss,
another reverie.
Morphic resonance has made the arrival,
another chance bequeathed.
A silent gift of opportunity,
an experience we don’t recall.
Don’t fret, just live it all.
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