The optimist is technical about his dreams
The realist is political about his philosophy
The pessimist is looking at the glass, wondering
The politician is sure, he will drink up the whole thing
Wings of fists should be hurled at these inns situated with flings
The banker is sure that he will follow the stars of confusion
When the houses crash like the ending of radicalism or shaking money-makers
Stringently, striding, stirred-up; I can't get enough
Staccato, semaphoring, please stop; was that you, or me
Stentorian or is it a voice, just a word that gives me sesquipedalophobia
Too many words, by now that why we should leave immortal institutions
Following Immanuel's Kant's words, he'd have a palpitating heartbeat, since, I generalized philosophy
I guess we let six days of fiction fly, why weren't olden people persuing
Reading their manuscripts, and making books by the 15th century
Can find me a couple of ordinary names in a book of deities?
Half-measures and half-wit got me nowhere
Arriving somewhere, as I arose to the departed memory of dying
I feel alive, this might be just the bird that flys
God, please do not fight me or make me slap myself for wanting more.
Since it's a Genesis' Ornithology, truth is only subject to philosophical argument, or religious extremism