Preservation

Instinct reigns in,

as moments keep passing,

the ships fly mile-high,

up in the sky,

reaching places,

these races,

a mass of faces,

there is no stasis,

in the zone,

with something to resist and something to condone,

as we roam,

objectives rendering us alone,

in the circus show

to and fro,

empty spaces between us hollow.

Swayed by the winds of change that blow,

so that preservation is futile, the seeds have already been sown,

and grown,

the first one to cast the stone,

will reap the fruits of the harvest that is to come,

the  orange and red season

we have all but anticipated,

with bated breath,

when wheat becomes bread,

we have already made our beds,

to lie in,

as the veils are thinning,

and the glasses are over brimming,

no turning back these miles,

have been walked and all the while,

the truth remains that preservation is futile,

Faatima

 

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