So much to happen, so little to know; lost inside

our tiny, small worlds, we ride sponging sutures;

if the stitchings are stronger than our desires for

breaking, the fault line is on ourselves; if a vision

for the exterior is but the product of our mirrors–

if a vitality for our growth is but only our thoughts,

the scale reads favorable for no-one.

A man reads words from inside a tv screen, while

a woman throws her bouquet to the loving crowd;

a sleeping dog kicks its legs as if it were running,

while a butcher wraps reded heads on wax tables.

So much to happen, so little to know; lost inside

our tiny, small worlds.