Time is on my (in) side,
Riding in adaptation,
Until it hits its stride,
On the soil in which we genetically reside,
But genetics are a joke when you de-individualize,
Inside youll die then be reborn and killed some more,
The floor on which I explore,
Lying on my back,
Laying in a pool of liquid mirror,
like a crack,
That drips me,
Into a garden of empty,
In which my infinite stride echoes into eternal me .
Author's Note: Cultivate observation,
It�s a garden of fascination.