What do we need from this world?
The world has always been a mirror,
Shining with the thinnest of rays,
In love, and in awe, of being alive.
The world is music, and rhythm
And waves, or displaced particles
Simply put, a fellow traveler,
On a carpet of relative absurdities.
If you ask me what I have left
With and without me, I wouldn't frown
For any more than a moment, or word
For what is, is but an illusion of sorts.
The illusion that sings to me
On a cold desert night, bisecting the dunes
As the earth travels, relative to the stars
And light; and rhythms which are; and used to be.
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