White, almost sustained.
Effortlessly painting picturesque pavements.

Dancing past, keeping beat
Really quick flicks of light
Always in tight procession. When you cross them,
What a wicked confession they make.

Tracing our paths, carving out journeys
How do we trust what we make ourselves see?
Especially when we're barely aware of our mothers arms.

Like webs weaving our worlds
Its like they unite and connect us yet
Never will they remain constant. So too, our
Existence is linear, and we create our limitations.
Segmentation, inevitably ensues.