We, don\'t repeat history
we repeat ourselves. Like
we are being told to...
in your heart they are with
you, but that image keeps changing, and it\'s only an idea of
fate, or the getting good, it too,
it\'s only the memory.
We do unto others, as ourselves...the truth we are less of what we are, and
less of what we were.
Because they are seen as two points, and you are one,
where
if luck has anything to do with it, we are little more than pretenses to what we set in motion.
And if perfection is a science
it\'s one that is imperfect because
the magic in this world,
released the golden vault,
where forbidden knowledge
is still being chewed up....
but the truth can\'t be ignored,
you stole what wasn\'t yours.
And the synergy of it disguises you in such detailed languages.
And to feel the unnatural and fill
ourselves with anything,
that void. We call self.
Is an illusion we feed
as many illusions as we
live in them.
But break them
and if they may
seem less than fake.
It\'s because they are.
They still constitute a simplicity of views.
In the light of anything, what is reality?
In the microscope
what are we tied to?
A systematic pulse
to fight, run or hide?
The perfection is...
that we all are imperfect.
The perfection in this fallen world.