For some people that still hear the ring,
They walk with lethargy sewn into their bones,
For those who still feel the need,
To fight societal walls, till they quench their inner groans,
For some people who still believe, and are climbing craggy hills.
The thinness between struggle and desperation is Them.
Bunch of Them.
Flying invisible rockets, albeit destructive to their hem.
The residue between this space is vanity.
Something that’ll loll your hands like dolls’.
They would wish they hadn’t ignored the creaks in their waist,
The lax in their fingers,
The uncertainty in their chest,
And the signs of bodily imcomplete-ness.
They would wish they had listened, and not.
Naught. Knot up the pleas in their body. The Machinery of worldly acheivements.
The wind will pay whom it wants to,
The waters would serve, whether in a desert or a savannah,
The sun will spread it’s teeth at the darkest crannies,
Life will circulate on it’s own chosen basis.
They’ll forget that not all beings are meant to climb hills,
Some are made to tend, and own Valleys.