In the mean of time, when walking across centuries and places, and the feeling
Of hours and minutes gone by, as if adventures were nothing, and moments in their
Pace, that of a breath, of a second turned minuscule, of life itself a fractured piece
Of history, of anyone, lasting the full depth of relevant living, can be without that first thought,
That last whim, that feeling of finality so quickly I poured upon them.

The reckless speed of traveling through, the hours and minutes crashing into one another,
Finding the way out amongst the backwalls of brick and mortar, so meaningless in
It's own right, as it too snap crumble and fall and make the life for new plants and new water
All those things that come with time and age, and life, making all things great
And all things small once again.

The enraptured beauty, that feeling of knowing, albeit subtly and on the edge of reality,
The worlds true translucent one, the knowing of the feeling of breath,
The sweet air that moves all around us, and considers our moment, our seconds, our miniscule
Bit of that little piece, that fraction of it broken down, to just that second, that you know,
You have seen real beauty, reality in its best form, real loveliness, for that first and only time.

Through this small fleeting of time, the History of The One, should be told.
There is little in the catch-a-day world that can brood up the feelings so deep,
That will make the stars and evening spirals glow dark on the sky,
And make the falling stars, fall to nothingness, and the glow of the nights sky become dark,
For in that pale face, in that golden hair, with that smile, everything is forever.