They say: we, humans, were born for reasons
then blinded for a reason was I?
or, muted for a reason was I?
intricately, not to see the beauty of the world's wonder
not to sing the melody of sweet rhythmic dulcet,
yet precious, perfect unique design
they call I am, God's special one.
I can't see I am, still
I can't say I am thus, still
I can't completely sense I am.
I move, yes, with freedom, a figment, though
yet imprisoned in an eggshell, my deadend
grave I had never.