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The streamline will carry on far beyond our lives.
The temple crumbles into dust.
Designed by action, spinning slender threads that weave between the walls,
now is the vestige of a future far to come.
Running in the treads of exercised experience with the answers placed before us by our own mistakes.
Mice in the lab with minimal reaction to greater woes and the throes of our brethren before us.
The end seems ever imminent,
like a long announced instant of a flash that wraps us up in dust and descends as fast as it arose.
Alas, this is just wanton hope.
Bans to stay the hands of men from grasping high at desperate threads that taunt them until they realize they've got only each other to stand on.
Complacent is the age in a place whose strength is shaped by the anger of those desperate for change,
but unable to make it.
Take a place or remain drowning in the waves of the greater.
We've limited our freedom and called it contraband. Do not reach for me in faith, you'll be cut off at the hand.