Seep upon the illusion of vanity,
As your true morality contested.
While all things fall asunder,
None reach perfect atonement.
Such struggle is but divinity of being human,
The tested fallacy in full glory.
In those imperfection lies heart of human kind,
And ridged expectation flow with the wind,
For all things do come to an end.
That precious moments define us,
And our flaws prescribe to center of universe,
For night sky are basked by infinite wisdom.
All things are illumination of life,
And there are no regrets,
But lost ether alone amongst the serenity of celestial plane.
What does it truly mean to be a human being, but the stride to be better in our imperfection, but that makes life little more interesting.
There are no perfect universe that cradle our senses, but why would we want to clone who we are, knowing imitation is a limitation?
