I’ve been writing this poem for three years now. The buildup to a cataclysmic revelation the understanding that, yes, we are a perfect race. The knowledge of a people so wide, it will be carved into minds and taught to stone until the end of time. But you cannot change the way people sip their wine. Cannot comprehend the understanding of the earth to the sun as she sets. Where ballet slippers break the dancers, not the other way around. Where the deepest oceans are left empty, where predator and prey both fail and love is a prospect of fantasy; beautiful, and you wish it to be true but something only beautiful, real, and forever in fairy-tale books. written by those who cannot find their voice.