Mayhaps this is no coincidence,
Maybe it could only be the world around us,
Churning along with the tiny stars and cellos.
Reaching a conjecture, an astral display of emotion:
That things are ever-changing,
That this is the way it should be.
It is of many regrets and ill happenings that it has become distorted.
Your father, your mother; their portrait irreversibly stained.
Shatters, numerable cracks, visible to every eye,
That no matter which method you mask or feign -
You are the furthest you\'ve ever been from alright.
Many speak of the self, the soul, the essence of one\'s life.
No one truly knows what lies in the heart of another.
Though this, with certainty, is real:
A false step is not a failure.
Ground to firmly plant the balance is required that you may stand.
So, lift your head, and try again.
Much do they ponder, of nature, of its roots.
Great are their efforts, fruitless; to grasp the truth.
The swelling tide sets a seemingly warm, yet cool blue veil atop
All that has happened on its shore.
And all too well do they see,
That like the line of sand, and of earth,
Washed away they will surely be, -
Tabula Rasa, the blank slate of rebirth.