Oh the things incomparable
To a fading, degrading
Disposition and perspective
Pondering the ends of ends
The nooks, the crannies, the bends

Outlook is the base of all things
The flimsy thread that holds thoughts in place
The frayed wire that connects the thought to feelings
It's all so trivial, maniacal, stone-sturdy
That things feel perpetually dull unless you're hurting

Biological process fused to creative intent
How do two wholly different and separate ways,
One emerged in science, the other in nature, get along?
This is something I don't entirely understand
But it never hurts to wonder when time says that you can