commanded from above, your instructions, divine,
justify just perfectly your destruction of time.
wandering, always lost, in whatever strange direction
the wind happens to blow through your thoughtless reflection.
your monkey eyes are filled with nothing more than the stars,
as each cloud passes by, anxiously grasping to what's ours...
and clouds are just that, puffball, vaporous mirages indeed,
how can your hands ever contain all the cotton that you see?
how can he slip past, unscathed, through a world that bleeds?
how can i contribute to an experience we can't help but impede?
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