I cannot
not compute,
this beauty, it's all around you,
as it can only exist in you,

surrounded in your shades,
your observation unto its grace,

this world,
you make,
real.

It's why I'll make,
you,

looking to your lines, your curves,
defining you by sight, tracing starlight,
then eyes, that shine unto mine,

as life becomes life's
worth living.

The heavens we can trace,
with but a glance to the place,
where by chance we will paint,
on the same lines of a space,
occupied by a fate,
between the times,
that we made,
and bang,

the endtroduction.

But faster, and fast-err, or,
can't not, not, compute,
bigger, better, more, and more,

the fabric,
it dilutes,
torn,

pouring from a door,
on another side,
doing just fine,

looking
no further

than the sky.