This dimension, my dear, is a teller of half-truths,
the Earth creates people that it cannot hold,
Those who are tethered to the bedrock with the gravity of a fateful umbilical cord that whispered to their mothers that they would never belong here.
Suffocated by their skin and
Disgusted by the frantic pumping of their hearts,
Outvoted by natural instinct, beaten by the will to keep the breath in their lungs
And disarmed by the logic that they cannot stare a hole through the night sky and escape to a less corrupt universe.
Plucking a rootless flower leaves me with something beautiful that will perish within the hour.
A wave of anxiety whispers at my feet as I turn, and seeing my footprints, confirm that I do not know where I came from or what I am made out of or what animates my carbonic shell.
Or whose breath fills my lungs, and whose elemental residue fabricates my reasoning.
