In just a fleck of dust,
conceived in flesh and blood —
there we are,
breathing in harmony;
even with empty songs
out of noble destruction.
Crickets sang for mate — nature dance with waves — people convey with phrases,
still with their tones,
we create masterpieces.
Singing with those compositions — flowing of patterns; dry our bones,
with just a speckle of dust — it makes us.
In just a particle of grime and clay;
Formed in flesh and blood — in melodies,
thyself is a treasure.
Thyself is a masterpiece.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 2:32 AM UTC
In just a fleck of dust,
conceived in flesh and blood —
there we are,
breathing in harmony;
even with empty songs
out of noble destruction.
Crickets sang for mate — nature dance with waves — people convey with phrases,
still with their tones,
we create masterpieces.
Singing with those compositions — flowing of patterns; dry our bones,
with just a speckle of dust — it makes us.
In just a particle of grime and clay;
Formed in flesh and blood — in melodies,
thyself is a treasure.
Thyself is a masterpiece.
