This cosmos has a language,
That the world I live in ply,
But it's not made of scars and contuses,
It's made of my letters and digits,
It doesn't write it's words on my skin,
It writes on my pebbles,
I rove in and out of people's world,Β
Like a feather in the breeze,
I found it quite,
Different and eerie,
That everyone is in,
Their own little existence,
With their own views,
That I'll never find hue,
I have seen many,
And I'd choose mine,
In a hundred lifetimes,
In a hundred worlds,
I'd find mine and I'd choose mine,
This is not the world you had in your wit,
Nothing like what you liveΒ in.Β
πΊπ'ππ
π_ππβ彑
Β©
S