I find it ironic how most dystopian novels are about a utopia
A world created to be perfect because ours failed
A world full of control, uniformity, perfection, no reflection
No identity, no war, no lust, maybe lust. Maybe just lust.
Broken, failed, oh how this brave new world derailed
It's a mishap, a hit and a miss, a world full of "ignorance is bliss"
Hidden from the view,
Or maybe just hidden from you
Oh yes it's quite ironic how the perfect world is ours,
Which we find so imperfect as we stare up at the stars
And wish for a world that we could just be one
Because everyone belongs to everyone