The Prologues are over, they are done
The questioning is a fiction of not accepting
A Life we are given, choices in a fiction
An ultimate Elegance in an imaged land
Surreal are the chapters that made up
Our stages of experience, our stories
Of belief, we were islands of voices
Each playing out our internal narrative
From the inside-out, like a diamond pattern
Of the algorithms of fate, it wasn’t a rumor
It was the feeling of being burried in Jasmine flowers
The weight of walking over newly fallen snow
We lived without external reference
Hoping to reinvent ourselves in some design
But the Sea is so many written words
With vowels that all sound the same
Made of white foam and water molecules
With a rosy-golden rain of the same waves of Light.
Wuji Seshat 