Here we are born:
The ill-prepared,
The underwhelmed,
A baby,
Stillborn,
Wondering after its feet,
Watching moths commit suicide in their mission for a light.
Given no ladder, given no rope,
We pull ourselves up on rungs risking papercuts.
Slick, sick, sliding,
The war-torn machine of humanity seeks the sweet oil can only
Consciousness can deliver.
"Here lies the illustrious Michel Nostradamus,"
Asleep in a deep sepulcher not unknown to us all.
"Awake and beat I am!"
Only some fish make it upstream.
I?
I have finally found comfort,
Dear ones.
Words have no meaning
(tub erutaretil seod).