To the distant creator I ask,
The reason to my quest,
Am I just a ***** in a machine?
Or mere a shadow cast by life.
The strokes of a painter's brush,
Swelled upon the canvas to create life,
Am I that painting of yours?
Or just a coincidental biological mess.
In this circular stone I live,
Floating in a space of infinite debris,
Am I just a thinking tree?
Or someone with a greater destiny.
I ask you through my lonesome walks,
With eyes dipped in question,
And heart soaked tired.
What's the purpose for this existence?
How can I fulfill the solace quest?
That my closed eyes had dreamt.
I don't ask for survival tricks,
Just a greater purpose to live my last days.
A mere rusted iron in this oxygenated world,
Excuse the pity brown, I can live with it,
Just find me a tool,
This rusted ***** can fit in,
This rusted ***** can fit in.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
To the distant creator I ask,
The reason to my quest,
Am I just a ***** in a machine?
Or mere a shadow cast by life.
The strokes of a painter's brush,
Swelled upon the canvas to create life,
Am I that painting of yours?
Or just a coincidental biological mess.
In this circular stone I live,
Floating in a space of infinite debris,
Am I just a thinking tree?
Or someone with a greater destiny.
I ask you through my lonesome walks,
With eyes dipped in question,
And heart soaked tired.
What's the purpose for this existence?
How can I fulfill the solace quest?
That my closed eyes had dreamt.
I don't ask for survival tricks,
Just a greater purpose to live my last days.
A mere rusted iron in this oxygenated world,
Excuse the pity brown, I can live with it,
Just find me a tool,
This rusted ***** can fit in,
This rusted ***** can fit in.
