We Are Sand

Woke up to a scene full of humans and dreams on the floor.

Some dead, some dying, others withering from the virus.

Spores lifted up and floated off, away from the pit.

Instead piloting their bodies to a sky they've been to before.

The cycle is perfect, the circle immaculate,

until you realize the sphere once perceptively inanimate.

Is there a door once more, a glimpse into a shadowy madness,

A loop of infinite chromatic blackness?
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The miscreant sheds its guise and evokes a whirlpool mentality,

spinning your mind, savaging your personality.

We had it made, an evolution attainable,

but the greed and materials gathered were of a lesser myth,

an illusory fable.

An apparition savored by our senses

Until the day we sit on top a pedestal made of slime and broken sticks.
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Where are the engines?

I swear I could fix them to the ship and reach

for an unbound plane.

Insanity, watch it dilate to an expanse,

never to consolidate the sadness of perpetual fear and hate,

Contracting smaller than your given frame.
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Black hat tactics given flak for pushing you to the limit.

This is your own personal happening.

A loose mind, a free world, a brave spirit.

These objects the traditionalists never seem to uncover,

Wasting their voices at dirt.
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Baited into their personal truth,

What is it anyway?

Are lies true?

Can poison really heal us?
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Eight mantras reduced to three enigmas,

Yet there is nothing to solve.

There is nothing to understand, all meaning is created by you and you alone.
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It is otherwise meaningless.

In this, I found happiness.
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We are sand